Become the Beast
by Umbrae Calamitas
Summary: Sam is sent back in time to prevent the Apocalypse from happening but he ends up back far further than he had expected. Now back at the start of Stanford, he's taking courses that will help him when he gets back into hunting, and finding allies in tricksters, witches, demons, nature spirits, and Loki. Things are going to be very different this time. Full series and summary inside.
1. Of Pagan Gods & Cadbury Cremes 1

**BECOME THE BEAST**

by Umbrae Calamitas

* * *

 **Series Summary:**

Sam Winchester is given a chance to go back in time and change things for the better, but he wakes up further back than he would have ever dared to hope. Only days have passed in this timeline since the fight that had him hitchhiking to California. Now he has four years at Stanford University to prepare for seeing his brother and hunting again.

But things will be different this time, and not just because Sam is taking courses that will help him in hunting. He's making the strangest assortment of friends, finding allies in tricksters, witches, demons, and nature spirits.

And that's without even looking at Loki. And... his kids.

Being a Winchester has always brought with it the strangest of oddities and the worst of luck, but this might be the adventure that takes the cake. Or the cadbury creme, at least.

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 **Warnings:**

 **References to child abuse and neglect, incidences of homophobic language, depression, anxiety, panic attacks, flashbacks, suicidal thoughts and ideation, Cage Trauma, nightmares, and implied/referenced sexual assault. The chapters that contain this elements will contain warnings, so if you are concerned about anything, please be sure to read the author's notes before the chapters. I intend to keep them brief.**

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 **Disclaimer:** I claim no ownership of Supernatural and that is unlikely to change throughout the entirety of the fic, If it does, I will be sure to say so, but consider this a series-long disclaimer of non-ownership. I'm just building castles in their sandbox. Some of them are character-shaped.

While this is a series, to make it easier to read the series in order, the entire thing will be posted within the same fanfic here on FFN. You can find information on the whole series on my profile, as well as a link to AO3 if you wish to read them separately, or want to enjoy the art that has been made for the series.

Also, you may recognize some characters from other fandoms. Apparently, Stanford University attracts the oddest sort of folk. Some of these include characters from Merlin (BBC), Doctor Who, Leverage, Harry Potter, Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU), and Rick Riordan's Universe (Percy Jackson), with more very likely to come.

Enjoy!

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 ** _Book One_**

 ** _Of Pagan Gods and Cadbury Cremes_**

* * *

 _Shit._

Sam stared at the mass of people to whom he was the newest source of entertainment and could only think of how very like his luck it was that he had been tossed into this situation.

Going back in time to fix things - that had been the plan. They hadn't been sure where he'd end up, how far Cas's limited power could send him, on top of substituting spell ingredients when they came up empty on one thing or another. Between Cas and Crowley, pretty much the only thing they'd had in sure supply was angel wings and demon blood, though Sam was still a little surprised he hadn't simply exploded once Dean had started chanting in a bastardized remix of Latin, Greek, and Enochian.

His older brother was _not_ happy that they only had enough juice to send Sam back, and doubly-displeased that Sam was the better choice, but he hadn't had much room to argue. Without much hope for keeping the world from being destroyed this go-around, stepping back through time to make some better choices at the beginning seemed the best option they had.

This, though…

"My, my, this is quite the offering you've brought me," the god spoke, as he stepped down from his throne. Of all the things to happen, being kidnapped by an overzealous idiot with delusions of grandeur had _not_ been ideal, especially since the first time he lived his life, he'd managed to kick the idiot sophmore's ass before he knocked Sam unconscious. Only the confusion at being back in a younger body in a mostly unfamiliar place had left him unprepared and now he was here, sat before a god as some sacrifice for… what, better grades?

And, of course, of all the gods to be sacrificed to, it had to be the one Sam was most attracted to, who he knew was secretly an archangel in disguise.

"Shit."

"It's been some time since I've been visited by one your age." Gabriel… well, Loki, was looking at the kid standing next to Sam. He had his hands in his pockets in a stance that was meant to look casual, though Sam knew it was mostly to keep the rings on his fingers out of sight. The one time the boy had let his guard down, Sam had tried to rip them off. He hadn't managed to get the ring, but he _had_ at least succeeded in breaking two of the kid's fingers.

Sam ducked his head to hide his smile. Call him a sadist, but that had been an enjoyable moment. Perhaps two hundred years in the Cage with Lucifer as a tor _mentor_ had fucked him up more than he'd realized. Thank Chuck for his brother and Castiel for helping him find his way back.

They hadn't had time to go to the hospital, of course, since the idiot apparently wanted to sacrifice him to _Loki_ of all… deities, so he knew the kid was in pain.

 _Good._

"My family's been worshipping you for generations."

Sam heard the shifting of fabric as Loki rose from the throne. "Generations, huh?"

He kept his head down. He didn't want to draw the hidden archangel's attention to him, even if this Gabriel wouldn't know who he was. His gaze was caught by the sandals Loki was wearing. They were golden, with straps that circled his ankles and ran up his legs until they disappeared beneath the pale cloth that fell in loose folds around him. Loki's toenails were white, polished and clean, and Sam felt his lips quirk up in a grin. What he would give to rag on the archangel about taking time out of his just desserts to get a pedicure.

He watched as those feet carried the trickster-archangel in a circle around Sam's kidnapper. The straps of the sandals were tight against his skin, but loose chains dangled against his flesh, shifting with a soft tinkling at every step the pagan took. The backdrop of clinking golden jewelry was just so _Gabriel_ that Sam had to struggle not to burst out laughing.

He could practically feel the disdain rolling off of Loki in waves as he stopped in front of the kid. The trickster matched the feeling in his tone.

"Imagine that. Generations your family has worshipped me, yet there's nothing interesting about you. No innate magics. No great talent. Oh, you're clever when you want to be, certainly, but that's a rare treat from you. Tends to get brushed aside for the laziness, doesn't it?"

There was a startled inhale from the boy and Sam tightened his lips. Sloth. Leave it to Gab- Loki to bring up the sins of one of his would-be worshippers. Sam almost felt bad for the kid. _Almost._

"How about you, kiddo?"

Sam lifted his head, startled as the archangel… god… archpagan stopped in front of him. He met Loki's eyes to find they were the same shade he had always associated with him - like melted caramel and sunshine through a glass of whiskey. They were filled with sly amusement, but Sam could see the curiosity, too. And as he met the archpagan's eyes, he saw a frown line appear between his eyebrows, saw the way his eyes gleamed a brighter gold for a moment, and then watched curiosity flare deeper yet.

It was probably driving Gabriel _insane_.

They'd planned this out as far as they could and one of the things that had been most important to Sam, besides making sure Lucifer couldn't steal his face, was keeping people from pulling bits of the future from him without his consent. Spell after spell, Enochian sigils, and more visits to a tattoo artist than Sam had ever thought he would experience and he wasn't sure _Chuck_ would have been able to get inside his head.

"What about me?" Sam asked, affecting a tone of unconcern. Honestly, Gabriel didn't scare him. He probably _should_ , if Sam was honest, but Gabe had been the archangel who had always stood by humanity. Yes, his methods were… less than stellar when you were on the receiving end and the archangel was very in it for himself, but he hadn't been trying to murder Dean and Sam and steal their bodies.

Well. Permanently murder, anyway.

"Why don't you tell me your name, hm?"

Sam resisted the urge to snort. Yeah, right. That was going to happen. Something must have shown on his face, because both of Gab—Loki's eyebrows had gone up. "No?"

Sam gave him a smirk the archangel would have been proud to know Sam picked up from him. "I might only be eighteen but I know the dangers of giving people your name."

Loki's teeth flashed white in a grin. "Oh-ho! The whole names-have-power lore. Ah, I love you humans and the stories you come up with." His smile turned playful and leering in a way that made heat pool in Sam's stomach. He swallowed hard. "I don't need your name to have power over you, kiddo. Whose throne are you standing in front of again?" At some point, the archangel-god had moved closer, the two of them barely inches apart. With Loki standing on one of the steps to the dais on which his throne sat, they were eye-to-eye and Sam could see amusement burning in whiskey-brown eyes. "I think," the god purred through a smirk, "that we both know who holds all the power here."

"Yes," Sam murmured, feeling a thrill as he watched Loki's pupils expand at the word. A smirk curled over his lips and he dared to lean close enough that he could feel the god's breath on his lips, could almost _taste_ him. "It's definitely me."

"Um… excuse me."

G-Loki blinked, then pulled back. Sam felt himself lean forward, trying to follow and stopped himself. Loki grinned and winked at him, before turning to Sam's abductor. "Needy little gerbil, aren't you?"

The look of affront on the boy's face was so ridiculously haughty and superior that Sam couldn't hold in his snort. The boy turned, small blue eyes narrowing on him. "I don't see why you're laughing, _Sam_." A smirk curled across the boy's face and Sam knew he had said his name on purpose, giving it to Loki. He was just glad the idiot hadn't had the foresight to give his full name, if he even knew it. What Gabriel would do if he knew Sam was a Winchester, he didn't want to know.

 _Probably run,_ his mind whispered tauntingly, _and with good reason._

 _Oh shut up,_ Sam hissed at his own thoughts.

He'd gotten better over the years at not falling into the spiral of his negativity. Recognizing it before it could suck him in helped a lot, but it didn't stop the thoughts from coming. Gabriel was, unfortunately, a source of a great deal of negative thoughts over the years. There had been an attraction between the two of them from the very start, but Mystery Spot had put a Dean-shaped hole in their potential. After everything that happened, honestly, Sam probably would have been able to forgive the archangel, with some bitterness, after learning about what he had done to escape Heaven. He and Sam were more alike than either of them had wanted to admit. But then Gabriel had died at Elysian Fields - died for _them_ \- and all chances of them becoming something, even friends, had died with him. In its place, only the guilt had grown, festering over the years, until it had almost consumed Sam along with everything else.

This chance, going back and fixing their lives, had been one of the only things that kept him going at the end. There'd been enough hope in the thought of it, in the potential, that he was able to pull himself up enough to get help. It hadn't been easy. More than once, he'd almost given up, but Dean had been there constantly, and Castiel, neither one of them giving up on him. Even Crowley had been there for him, in his own way, and Sam had learned to walk a line between the angel and the demon, step-by-step in rhythm with his brother. Two kids in the grand scheme of things, not angels or demons, but not wholly human either.

And here he was, back years before he'd expected. He'd been hoping only to make it back before Dean's deal, in some illusive moment before the end had really begun. He'd had no expectations beyond that. Hadn't even been sure they could do it. So much had happened, so many years had passed, and the age of his body was at such a disconnect with the age of his soul, the largest danger had been the place where he'd spent the most time in his long life.

Castiel hadn't mentioned it to Dean when the concern had arisen, for which Sam was grateful. He had spoken it quietly only to Sam, the possibility that he would make it years back in time, only to wake up back in the Cage, forced to endure Lucifer for another two hundred years.

Familiar with his luck, he had expected the likelihood of that possibility being high, but it hadn't been high enough to deter him, even though speaking to Dean, especially during those last few weeks, had been terrible, his mind filled with thoughts that the next time he saw his brother might be in the depths of a living nightmare, where Lucifer was using the faces of everyone he loved as he flayed the skin from Sam's bones. Even that final day, he couldn't bear to tell Dean of the possibility, wanting his brother to keep hold of the hope Sam wasn't quite able to grasp. He could only hug his brother tight in what might be a final grasp and pray harder than he ever had in his life. Pray for a chance. Pray for his family. Pray for time.

Instead of waking up in the Cage with Lucifer as his roommate, or waking up in one of the numerous motel rooms he and his brother had shared during those first few years when everything was so much easier by comparison, he'd woken in a room that distinctly _wasn't_ a hotel, with his brother nowhere in sight, and everything looking vaguely familiar in a _deja vu_ way.

He'd been completely baffled, and also completely weaponless. The ability ingrained into them to wake up at a moment's notice didn't do much good if you weren't paying attention to your surroundings like you should. He would have been less surprised to be attacked by a demon. Having someone reach around him with a rag soaked in chloroform had been the highlight of his night.

Contrary to what Hollywood would suggest, chloroform didn't take effect right away. Sam had time to struggle, and struggle he had, but something icy had clamped down on his wrist, burning cold, and his strength had gone out of him in an instant. He'd collapsed to the floor with the other boy on top of him and succumbed with embarrassing speed to the chloroform. He'd woken up later in what was unmistakably a moving vehicle, his hands tied tight to the oh-shit bar and a blindfold wrapped around his eyes. It had only been removed when they had to go out in public, like when the kid dragged them into a hotel for the night. That was when Sam had tried to get the ring off the guy's hand, inscribed very obviously in the same style as the band on his wrist. He'd failed in getting the ring, but the sound of breaking fingers had still be satisfying.

The blindfold had prevented Sam from seeing where they entered Loki's domain from, which was only a minor problem, more an irritation than anything. It was wholly likely that the entrance shifted so as to keep displeased people from returning or Loki being found, but Sam wasn't sure and he would have liked to know.

He added it to his mental list of things to look into in the future.

"So what do you think of all this, kiddo?"

Sam lifted his head and looked at Loki. The trickster god was giving him a thoughtful look, probably wondering still why he couldn't get inside Sam's head. Castiel had told him it was _unusual_ but not an unheard of event. Just like there were some humans who were able to perceive an angel's wings - their grace - without their eyes burning out of their sockets, there were some humans whose minds couldn't be read. Not even by an archangel.

"... I kinda want to hear his justification for trying to offer you an unwilling sacrifice, if he's serious about his family worshipping you for generations. You'd think he'd know better."

He saw the boy's face flush red but before he could say anything, Loki looked over at him with a long hum trailing from his lips. "I'm curious about that, as well." And wow, watching the kid swallow his entire adam's apple should not be so satisfying. "You do understand the concept of free will, don't you, boy?"

Oooh… not even a nickname. Ouch. The archangel was _not_ happy, but then, Gabriel had spent millennia hanging out with humans. In the end, he had fought and died for them and their free will. It was no surprise to Sam that it was something that would infuriate him even as Loki.

Sam could actually _feel_ Loki's fury. It crackled in the air like a static charge, leaving a tingling burn across Sam's skin. Sam remembered fire and ice clashing in a storm, leaving burning scars across his skin. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, reminding himself that he _was not there_. His plans, bare outlines that they were, would make certain _that_ never happened. He would not be locked in the Cage again. And Loki - Gabriel - was certainly not his brothers.

"I mean, come on," Sam said, drawing the attention of both the frightened kid and the angry god, "you could've just _asked_. I would've told you there's way better things to trade than a scrawny college student." He flashed the both of them a grin and watched Gabriel tilt his head, his eyes burning caramel gold in curiosity.

"What sort of things do you think I'd like, Sam-I-Am?" The god stepped closer with a slow, measured stride that was probably meant to look impressively intimidating. Sam felt his breath catch in his throat and hoped to… Chuck that Loki didn't notice.

Considering the smirk that curled across the trickster's lips, Chuck wasn't listening to Sam's prayers today.

Well, fine. He could play that game, too.

"Mm… we could try and Take Five? Or I could… give you a break. I enjoy a good pull n' peel..." He gave Loki a slow, lascivious grin that made the god's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Twizzlers, you know."

"Twizzlers," Loki muttered. It sounded like a question.

Sam smiled, stepping closer. His grin hurt his face but he couldn't stop smiling. He'd never seen Gabriel look so… startled.

"Or those Cadbury eggs. They're so creamy inside. I like to put the whole thing in my mouth and…"

Loki made a noise in the back of his throat that made Sam's stomach drop to his crotch. There was color high on the god's cheeks and his eyes were burning gold.

It was so fucking hot.

They'd gravitated toward each other again, faces only inches apart. Loki smelled like warm sugar and sunshine and Sam would have given almost anything to lean in just that little bit more, press their lips together, and finally see what he tasted like.

 _Whipped cream and peeps,_ Sam thought, feeling Gabe's breath ghost over his lips. _Caramel and peanut brittle. M &Ms melting on his tongue. Cotton candy and sprinkles._

His lips quivered with want and Sam closed his eyes, exhaled slowly, admitted to himself that this… couldn't happen. He wanted it. God, did he want it, but… no.

No.

He pulled back, the smile curling over his lips, and looked at the idiot who had kidnapped him. "See?" He jerked his head at Loki, whose face shuttered in response to Sam's obvious disinterest in continuing their game. "Way better choices than some dumb college kid." He glanced at the trickster god, who had stood back up straight and was eyeing him cooly. He felt sick at the sight. "Am I right?" he asked, and was pleased when his voice didn't crack.

"Kiddo, a head of cabbage would have been a better trade than you."

Sam felt something sharp in his chest at the words spoken so casually but he forced it not to show on his face. Instead, he flashed a grin at the other kid. "See? Better luck next time."

Loki snorted, stalking forward. "There won't be a next time." He snapped his fingers and the sound was hard in the air. The kid disappeared with a rush of power Sam could feel like heat against his skin. There was nothing welcoming about it.

Loki sighed, his back to Sam. For a moment, the room lingered in silence and Sam waited, wondering if his memory would be erased and he'd be sent back to his apartment with a snap of fingers.

And then Loki was turning around, the grin back on his face, but none of it showing in his eyes. It hurt Sam to see that look, knowing he had put it there.

"You've had a pretty eventful evening and none of it by your consent, for all that you rolled with the punches." Sam nodded, not quite sure where Loki was going with this. "Seems only fair that, being a captive and unwilling audience member to my court, I grant you… a small boon."

Sam blinked in surprise. A boon? Of all things, he hadn't expected _that_.

"And… what do you get?" he asked cautiously.

"Why, the pleasure of your company in my court, of course," Loki said, throwing his arms wide. "You have been a source of immense entertainment tonight. It's only fair you're paid for your services. So tell me, what would you like? A credit card that never maxes out? A doctorate in your chosen field? I'd suggest dashing good looks but you certainly don't need any help in that department, do you?"

Sam felt his face heat with a blush and Loki's eyes brightened in amusement. "Don't be shy, Sam-a-Lam," he said, his voice softer and teasing, that bitter edge fading from it. "Anything you want that's within my power and it's yours. Just name it."

Sam opened his mouth… and closed it again. _Anything?_

He thought about Dean. His dad. _Jess_. He thought about all the people they had saved over the years and all of the people that had died. He thought about apocalypses and demons and angels and having the whole world against them as they struggled to survive. He thought about sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala with his brother blasting Led Zeppelin and how much he wanted that to be his life _right this instant_.

He thought about his plans, put together by two humans, an angel, and a demon, hashed out over long nights and even longer days, the four of them struggling to come up with an answer to every possible outcome, to prepare for any eventuality, when Sam was inevitably thrown back in time _alone._

And he thought about Gabriel.

He thought about the archangel dying for them, protecting them from Lucifer by stepping forward and picking a side, against his brothers. He thought about how hard it must have been, how lonely, how heartbreaking.

And he thought about the look on Gabe's face when he'd pulled away, pretended the attraction he felt for the trickster god archangel was a ruse, a game.

That look had hurt like a blade to the gut.

Sam drew a deep breath in and exhaled.

"An hour."

Loki tilted his head to the side. "An hour?"

Sam nodded, his lips curving up into a smile. "An hour of your time at some point in the future. I call, you come."

Loki's eyebrows rose and his gaze was wary. "And what will be there when I call, I wonder?"

"No traps," Sam promised. "No…" He had to stop himself before he said sigils or Enochian. "There will be nothing waiting there to hurt or capture you. I swear it. Just an hour. We'll… talk."

"Talk." Loki stared at him. "I offer you anything in the world for a word, and you want to get together and _talk_."

"We could grab dinner while we do it," Sam said defensively.

Loki _grinned_ at him. "Like a date?" Sam's cheeks flushed hot. He opened his mouth to deny that, but Loki interrupted him, "Sam, Sam, Sam, I am _flattered_. I am so flattered, I accept." He raised his hand. "It's a date."

Sam sputtered indignantly, but before he could say anything, Loki's fingers snapped.

Sam sat up.

He was back in his apartment. His first apartment. The one before school had started that he'd rented before he was assigned a dorm. He stared at the wall across from his bed, his mind whirling with thoughts.

He could still smell chloroform on the air, could still taste Loki's breath like cotton candy on his lips. He lifted his arm and glanced down at his wrist.

The manacle he had been wearing was gone, its sharp, rusty edge no longer burning against his skin. Instead, the cuff around his wrist was obsidian, cool and smooth against his flesh. This one lacked the sharp inscriptions of the previous manacle that had weakened him. Instead, the bracelet was inscribed with…

"You have got to be kidding me."

There was a fucking Cadbury Creme egg inscribed into the stone. Sam grabbed the bracelet to pull it off, only he found it was too tight to slip over his hand. He struggled with it for a moment, but the bracelet - manacle - was small enough to sit comfortably around his wrist, but it wouldn't pull off.

He looked for a seam but there wasn't one.

Instead, on the other side of the bracelet - the side that had been facing down from his wrist - he found another inscription. Two snakes curled around each other, biting into the others' tail. He'd seen it before, of course, years ago when he had done some research on _Loki_ after meeting the "trickster."

Sam stared at the inscription for a long time, wondering exactly what it meant that he couldn't remove the bracelet that bore Loki's sign.

He glanced at the clock sitting on the bedside table.

2:04 AM

Fuck it. He flopped back onto his bed and blew out a sigh. Back in time for less than a full day and he'd already run into Gabriel, who thankfully had no idea of who he really was, but he clearly knew where Sam lived, since he'd snapped him back here. At least he couldn't read Sam's mind, but he would make to keep an eye out to make sure the trickster archangel didn't stumble on the truth before Sam was good and ready for him to know.

He grinned at the ceiling. His life had just gotten infinitely more complicated because of one idiot college kid who'd wanted better grades, but Sam wasn't entirely sure he cared.

This was just the beginning and it was gonna be _awesome._


	2. Of Planning & Pool Cues 1

**Book Two**

 **Of Planning and Pool Cues**

 **CHAPTER ONE**

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 **Summary:** Sam's back at the start of his time at Stanford, against all odds and the Winchester Luck. Now he has four unexpected years to plan for, so he better get started.

* * *

Stanford was… the same.

It seemed different. For a while, Sam kept trying to figure out what had changed. It took him a few days to realize nothing had. Stanford was the same. _He_ was different.

He wasn't entirely sure how to feel about that.

On the one hand, he was glad to be back. Not just for the chance to go through and make sure the thing with the apocalypse didn't go the same as it had the last time, but also because there was so much he could do differently _here_. He had never expected, not in his wildest imaginings, that he would end up this far back. Not just _in Stanford_ , either, but at the start of it.

He hadn't even had his first class, yet. Students were still moving in and class wouldn't start for another two weeks. Sam, himself, hadn't been situated in a dorm, yet. He was still living in the small apartment he had rented for a couple weeks when he arrived to Stanford a month before term began. If memory served (and things stayed the same), he would be getting an email with details of where he would be living for the next year.

Of course, it was possible things would have changed. Sam had already set things into motion that would make his time here very different from his first time living it. He'd had reasons for choosing to pursue a law degree that first time, in part because he knew he would be able to assist hunters who were caught by the police while working a job. And he'd be able to do it without having to _hurt_ anyone.

There was also the fact that Law required a lot of mental activity. It would be challenging, but not like hunting was challenging. Hunting required him to determine what a creature was and find a way to defeat it - to kill it. Law would be even more challenging because Sam wouldn't be using a wooden stake to take out the problem. He'd be using his knowledge and wits, and he'd be arguing a side, making his point to a jury who would _listen_ to him when he spoke.

The listening part? That was big for him.

Sam had tried to argue his side before to his father, but anything that suggested against killing every non-human creature that stepped in their path was furiously beaten down by John. Not-human meant they deserved to die and Sam… he just, he didn't like that. He never had.

There were monsters, sure, and they'd dealt with their fair share over the years, taking out rugarus who were going after children or vampires who killed women on the streets at night. Saving people, Sam could get behind.

It was hearing of someone who did magic and hunting them because "all witches deserved to burn" that Sam couldn't understand. He wasn't an idiot. He knew there were witches out there who had sold their souls for magic, for power. But Sam also spent most of his time doing research and he'd learned things over the years. Things that suggested that there were witches who were born with magic, or who fell into it over the years without any demonic assistance. Hunting down a woman who performed scrying spells to find lost pets? That wasn't something Sam had wanted to be a part of.

He'd run for a lot of reasons. Some he remembered because they were ingrained in him - his disbelief that everything nonhuman was a monster, his need to be able to use his mind to do _good_ , his desperate desire to understand what a normal life would be like.

He was sure there were other reasons, ones he didn't recall, things that, during the fight, had made it easier to leave. But he wondered, a little, unsure, if he hadn't sensed something about himself all those years ago. He'd always felt… unclean in a way he never could have explained. And while his younger self had never understood that the demon blood he was forced to ingest was the cause of that, Sam wondered if part of him hadn't recognized the powers he held. If he'd run for a lot of reasons, but if one hadn't been to save himself from becoming a hunt for John.

Knowing now what he did about that night so many years ago, and about the final words John spoke to Dean, Sam didn't have a lot of faith in John's sense of paternal obligation preventing him from turning a gun on Sam if he understood the magnitude of Sam's powers.

Or what he was meant for.

If John Winchester knew that Sam was meant to be Lucifer's vessel, Sam didn't think his father would hesitate to put a bullet in his brain.

Sam sighed into the paper cup he held, glancing down at the dribble of coffee that always lingered in the bottom, unattainable. Like peace. Or hope.

 _You're sitting in front of a fountain at Stanford, in your nineteen-year-old body,_ he told himself. _If that's not hope, then you need to find a dictionary. And some alcohol._

He did have hope. He was back here, against all odds, and his brother was only a phone call away if Sam really wanted to talk to him. Granted, it would be an awkward phone call and this Dean would be very different from the one Sam had left, but it would still be _Dean._

He'd thought about it. Thought about calling, or just texting, but it had only been a few weeks since he left, since the fight, and this Dean would still be his father's little soldier. No matter that Dean had ultimately let Sam go to Stanford (reluctantly and hurt, but Dean _had_ let him go). Part of Sam wanted to tell Dean everything, to have his brother fully there by his side, but he knew that it wouldn't happen now. Not with John still calling the shots. Calling _for_ shots, and putting bullets in anything that looked funny.

Sam understood the man was still grieving the loss of Mary in some ways, but he'd let revenge consume him and let it take over his whole life. Even Dean and Sam had taken a backseat to John's need to hunt. The man only seemed to act like a father to-

"Adam," Sam gasped, dropping his cup. The paper cup bounced off his shoe and landed on the ground, the last dribble of coffee dripping from its edge, but Sam paid it no mind.

Adam was still alive in this life. Still alive and… Sam did a quick calculation in his head. Roughly around twelve currently.

Sam dug his fingers into his hair and pulled. He couldn't believe he'd forgotten about Adam, but…

He forced himself to take a deep breath. His thoughts were whirling, a thousand ideas rushing through him, from _go get Adam right now and protect him_ to _pray to an angel to protect them_ to _call Dad and tell him he's a fucking asshole._ That last one had a lot of promise but Sam didn't think it would go over well. Besides, how would he explain being aware of his half-brother? And god, Dean would be ruined by the knowledge. He still believed their father was a saint.

Sam sighed and rubbed his face. Okay.

Okay.

He couldn't show up at their door with no warning and explain the supernatural to them. That would be unkind and lead to all sorts of trouble. He had time. Adam didn't come into the picture of their lives until much later. Sam would need to keep an eye out, in case his changing things had an adverse effect, but he didn't need to jump into action right this instant. He had time to think.

Thank god, because he didn't know where to start.

 _Making a plan sounds good._

Dean, Cas, and Crowley had helped him to come up with a plan but they had been working with the idea that Sam would arrive back sometime within the first or second year with Dean, if Fate was kind. Except, Fate had been more than kind, and now there were four years that they hadn't accounted for in front of Sam, no plan in sight beyond the barest of ideas.

Standing up from the stone boundary of the fountain, Sam scooped up his coffee cup and threw it in a nearby trash can. He slung his bag over his shoulder and started to walk.

His apartment was paid up through the next two weeks - long enough for him to move into a dorm room. He had a couple hundred dollars and, if he was lucky, the landlord of his apartment would refund him the pay for the week he didn't live there like he had the first time Sam moved out early.

He needed to pick up some supplies, but first, he needed to make sure his funds were a little steadier.

Sam headed back toward his apartment to get a few hours of sleep. He'd be spending some time at a bar that night. Easiest way to make some quick cash - hustle some guys at pool. Sometimes his brother did know what he was talking about.


	3. Of Planning & Pool Cues 2

**WARNING: Trigger warning for emotional abuse from a parent.**

* * *

 **Book Two**

 **Of Planning and Pool Cues**

 **CHAPTER TWO**

* * *

"You don't want to a part of this family, just say so!"

"That's not what I meant-"

"Isn't it? You been pushing to get out of here for years, Sammy. Don't talk to me like I don't know what you're thinking." John glared at him, his dark eyes narrowed in rage. "Don't you lie to me."

"Would you just _listen_ to me?" Sam gasped. They were both standing in the kitchen, Sam's bag lying in the corner of the room where John had thrown it after he ripped it from Sam's shoulder. He'd heard something rip when the bag had torn loose so he'd have to be careful when he picked it up. He hoped it was still salvageable.

"I don't want this to be my whole life," he said, desperation making his voice thick. He struggled with his self-control, willing himself not to cry. His eyes stubbornly burned and he could feel the heat on his face, a mixture of anger and fear. "I don't want to wake up twenty years down the road and realize how much I missed."

"So you're just gonna leave, that it? Run off an abandon your family?"

Sam's breath caught in his throat. Why was his dad acting like this? He just… he just wanted to live a life that was normal. He wanted… he…

"Why can't I just have a normal life?"

"Because we're Hunters, Sam!" John yelled.

"But what if I don't want to be?" Sam asked, his own voice rising without his volition. "What if I want to try living like a normal person? What if I want to know what it's like to not pull a gun on every odd shadow or creaking door?"

"You think you can just turn it off?" John snapped, stepping forward until he was barely an inch from Sam. His dad was still taller than him, if only just, and he used all of his height and his anger to get right in Sam's face - a classic intimidation technique Sam himself had been taught until he mastered. He hated using it, hated acting like he was superior or like he would attack someone if they disagreed. That's part of why he wanted _out_. He couldn't take this anymore.

"Dad, please," Sam whispered, but John ignored him, pressing forward and forcing Sam to step back or be walked into. "I just want a normal life."

"Our lives aren't _normal_! They never have been!"

"They were once," Sam snapped back, the anger at his father's lies snapping forward like a snake. "Maybe I want a chance of what you had with Mom!"

"Your mother's _dead_ because we lived a normal life, because we didn't know what was out there! Normal killed her and you want to go back to that? You just want to erase her?"

"I don't even remember her!"

John slammed his fist into the wall by Sam's face, the plaster crumbling against the force. Sam jerked away, gasping in surprise, and heard a hiss of breath from across the room. He glanced up to see that Dean had stepped forward, his fists clenched at his sides, face red with restraint.

John pulled his hand out of the hole he had made in the plaster and Sam looked back at him, ready to move if he needed to, but John didn't raise his fist again. They were clenched tight at his sides, the right one white with drywall dust. He glared at Sam, his eyes dark with fury, but Sam's back was pressed to the wall. He had nowhere to retreat to.

"Dad," Dean said tentatively.

"Stay out of this, Dean!" John snapped, not looking away from Sam. "Or were you planning on leaving, too?"

"I… no," Dean said, the surprise clear in his voice. "Of course not."

John nodded. His jaw was clenched tight. "So you're just gonna walk away, Sam? Just like that? What would've happened if Dean hadn't stopped you? Would you have even said goodbye?"

Sam didn't answer, which he supposed was answer enough. His plan had been to catch the bus and call Dean from his cell once he was on the move, too far away for Dean to catch him even with his foot to the floor. But Dean had seen him leaving, seen the bag slung over his shoulder, and Sam hadn't been able to keep walking with Dean's confused and frightened "Sam?" echoing in his ears.

"So that's how it is," John said, and his voice sounded cooler but the rage was only banked, simmering low, like a tide waiting to rise. The man stepped back, away from Sam, and gestured at the bag in the corner. "Fine, then. Go. Get out."

Sam eyed him warily for a moment, then stepped past him. He grabbed his bag from the floor, noting that one of the straps had been torn from the back and now dangled uselessly. He'd had to replace it once he got to California.

"Sam-"

"No, Dean. Let him go if he wants to go. Let him run off like a coward. We don't need him."

Sam tried to hide how much that hurt but he didn't think he managed very well. He swung his bag over his shoulder by its good strap and headed for the door. He didn't think there was anything left to say. He was pushing the door open when John spoke, and his voice held all the threat Sam had only ever heard him use on monsters.

"You walk out that door, Sam, you don't ever come back."

Sam froze in the doorway, cold rushing over his skin. His breath stuttered in his lungs and he felt tears rush to his eyes. He distantly heard Dean snap at their dad, panic in his voice, but John's voice spoke over him, a growled threat. "You hear me, Samuel? Don't you ever come back."

Sam's fingers tightened on the doorknob, then he nodded without turning around. "Yes, sir."

The door banged shut behind him as he continued walking, and it took everything in him not to turn around when he heard Dean screaming after him, heard his father's raised voice and Dean's angry reply. Sam fought the urge to turn around one last time to see his brother.

He wasn't going to give John the satisfaction of his tears.

* * *

Sam's eyes snapped open and he sucked in a sharp breath, the sudden force of the air hitting the back of his throat like a karate chop. He coughed hard, rolling over and kicking the blankets off of himself. He sat up, letting his feet brush the carpeted floor, and ran his hands through his hair. It was tangled and his fingers caught. Sam hissed at the sharp tug and untangled his fingers. He sighed as he wiped his face, his fingers coming away wet with tears.

He gingerly wiped his eyes. They were sore and the lids ached. He glanced at his clock and sighed.

11:07 PM

He wished he was surprised but really, he should have expected to dream of that night. Being back here, and with this body so soon removed from that moment, it was no surprise that his mind gravitated to the fight with John and his disownment. He wondered if the memories were clearer because of the age of this body, if perhaps his mind had returned but this version of Sam that he had replaced had merely assimilated his future knowledge, rather than completely replacing the version that had been here. If that were the case, it made sense that the memory of the fight was as crisp as it was.

Sam stood up and moved toward the bathroom, his hand trailing along the wall so he didn't have to turn on lights. He grabbed a washcloth out of the bathroom cupboard and soaked it in cold water before cover his eyes with it. The cold soothed the burn of his eyes and he sighed in relief.

He itched to find his phone and dial Dean. Wanted to call his brother and tell him that he was fine, that he'd made it Stanford, that he was safe and all right and there was salt on every windowsill and in front of every door. He wanted to call and listen to his brother's voice. He wanted to soothe away the memory of Dean frantically calling his name as he walked away, but he knew he couldn't. If John found out…

Dean had snuck out of the house later that night and made his way to the bus station, determined to make sure his little brother was all right. Sam had missed the bus he'd been hoping to catch because of the fight with John and hadn't wanted to waste what little money he'd had for a motel room. He'd been using his bag as a pillow, hand fisted around the broken strap, when Dean plopped into the seat next to him.

What followed was an interrogation of his plans, of what the letter he'd received had said, of what he planned to do for money and a place to stay. Sam had answered every question, feeling obligated to give his brother this after trying to leave without saying goodbye and pissing off John.

He'd expected Dean to drag him back, to bully him until he walked through the door to the house and was left at the mercy of John's whim. He didn't know whether to expect that John would accept him back on the condition that he never left again or to be thrown out, but he hadn't anticipated Dean.

His brother had pulled out a few hundred dollars from his pocket and slapped it into Sam's hand with a growled "Here." Dean had pulled a messenger bag out of the inner pocket of his coat. "Put your stuff in here before you end up dropping it everywhere." He'd helped Sam transfer his meager supply of clothes to the new bag, Dean's mouth in a tight line and his responses to Sam's questions coming out as grunts more often than words.

"When's your bus leave?"

"Eight in the morning. Dean-" he cried, as Dean pulled him to his feet.

"Come on, let's get a motel room."

"Dean, I can't-"

"You aren't sleeping here, Sammy. You'll get your gangly ass mugged within an hour and then you'll never make it to… wherever."

"Stanford."

"Right. Stanford." They'd walked in silence for a while, before Dean quietly added, "And maybe I want to spend one more night with my brother before he disappears into a normal life."

Sam hesitated, then quietly said, "You could come with me."

Dean snorted. "Like Dad would let us both leave." He sighed. "Besides, I'd hate college. Fucking eggheads everywhere. Nah, man, I like the life." His mouth twisted into a frown. "Won't be the same without you, though."

"Yeah," Sam muttered, his voice rough. "Don't, uh… don't get yourself killed, okay?"

"Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself. But you don't let those professors rip your brains out through your ears or something, all right? And call… if you need something. Call when you get there. I wanna know you're all right, Sam. Just… might not pick up is all." Sam knew what he meant. If John heard Dean talking to Sam so soon after their fight, it wouldn't be a fun time for Dean.

"I'll be discrete."

"You do that." Dean clapped him on the back. "Now come one, Sammy. There's a hotel just down the street that said they've got a free hot breakfast in the morning and I'm hankering for some pancakes!"

Sam's mouth quirked into a smile. "I'm gonna miss you, you know."

"Yeah, yeah, don't be such a fucking girl." Dean's shoulder nudged into his. "I'm gonna miss you, too, bitch."

"Jerk," Sam muttered, as they made their way to the hotel.

In the morning, he'd shared a hot breakfast of pancakes and crappy eggs with Dean before his brother saw him off at the bus stop. He'd stared out the window like the girl in every cliche romantic movie and watched as his brother stood there, hands in the pockets of his coat, watching until the bus turned and they lost sight of each other.

It'd been only a couple weeks since they'd seen each other, and only two days for the version of Sam that had come back from the future, but he missed his brother like air. He'd used a payphone to call Dean's cell, letting the phone ring until the voicemail picked up and then just listened to his brother's voice for a minute, the cocky tone of his voice soothing and aching at once.

He hadn't spoken a word but let the message drag on, the phone likely picking up ambient noise from the busy street. After two minutes, he hung up. Dean would get the message. He always did.

Sam exhaled a breath and threw the washcloth in the hamper, blinking into the mirror. He could see a vague outline of himself in the darkness, no true detail, but he imagined his eyes were red and his face still stained with tears.

A shower sounded good, to clear away the memories, and then he'd make his way to the bar. A couple good nights of hustling drunken idiots out of their cash at the pool table and he'd be set to stock up on some things. He told his brother he was going to be safe and he _would_ , but he planned to make sure Dean was safe, too. That was the whole reason he'd come back and he didn't intend to wait to act just because he was earlier than expected. His brother was not going to suffer Hell, no matter what Heaven and Hell had to say about it, and that was final.


	4. Of Planning & Pool Cues 3

**WARNING: Warning for homophobic language and general assholery.**

* * *

 **Book Two**

 **Of Planning and Pool Cues**

 **CHAPTER THREE**

* * *

There were three bars within a mile of campus that Sam had scoped out once he arrived. He was aware of a few more within a ten mile radius but he wasn't interested in finding his way to them tonight. Cab rides were expensive and he didn't want to deal with the hassle.

Instead, he picked the closest bar, a little rundown joint carded Barbed Wire and Lace that he thought Dean would enjoy for the name alone. He'd been in it before during his first run and was somewhat familiar with it, though he and his friends had preferred a bit more upscale bar on the other side of town when they were celebrating. Sam wasn't out to celebrate tonight. Barbed Wire and Lace hosted exactly the sort of clientele he was looking for.

The bar was smokey inside, the air thick with a nicotine haze, but Sam ignored it. He'd been in enough bars running around with Dean and his dad that he'd grown accustomed to the smell of cigarettes and he had a fake ID in his pocket that would pass an FBI inspection if it was so required, so he didn't have to worry over been caught out as too young to drink. In a few months, when his professors were more familiar with his face, that could become a problem, but he had some time yet.

He made his way to the bar and took a seat, ordering a beer from the bartender with a vague glance, his eyes scanning over the people. College towns brought college people to the bars and he recognized a few faces with vague memory, noting a few professors he wouldn't have this time around and even catching sight of someone he thought might be his former Anatomy professor. That man could dissect people with his eyes. Sam would _not_ be taking his class again.

The bar scene was relaxing in its familiarity but Sam found himself missing the presence of his brother. Dean would normally be sat beside him, nursing his own beer and scoping out the possibilities. Well. Once upon a time that had been the case. Less so near the end.

Sam smiled into his beer and thought about the ridiculousness that was his brother and Cas dancing around one another. He forced himself to ignore the possibility that nothing of the sort might happen this time. That Cas might be someone that once was and could never be, because he was changing things.

He wasn't going to think of it. Not tonight.

There was a curse from across the room and then laughter. Sam turned his attention to the pool game that had just ended, one party handing over a handful of bills to his grinning opponent. He studied them through his lashes, head ducked down and breath exhaling into his beer. He watched the loser sulk off to nurse a beer at a far table while the winner began to set the pool table up again, clearly planning for another game.

Good.

He was tall - almost the same height as Sam was currently - but bulkier, with wide shoulders and a stomach that spoke of nights spent on a barstool. Jeans and a plain shirt told no sure story, but the cowboy boots were scuffed with heavy use and the ten gallon hat was faded from the sun. A frequent at bars but not this one, and not a local, if Sam had to guess. He wasn't a student here, then, just someone passing through, working over the college students in much the same way Sam had planned to, but the sneer on his face told a cruel story.

Sam's fingers tapped against the glass bottle in his hands as he watched the pool table put back to rights, watched the man chalk his pool cue and circle the table like a tiger. After a few minutes, the man began a solitary game, sending the cue ball into the rack with a _crack_. Sam watched the numbered balls burst like a firework around the table, bouncing off the edges but none of them going into the pockets.

The man was better than some other players, yes, but he had no true skill.

An easy mark.

Sam didn't go over right away, though. He watched. The man stalked the table with an arrogance that grated on Sam's nerves but would be a benefit during the game. As would the three beers the man consumed while showing off his skill. When he disappeared to the bathroom, Sam ordered himself another beer and finished off his first, making his way over to the abandoned pool table.

He was putting the rack back in place when the man came out of the bathroom. Sam deliberately ignored the heavy tread as it stalked up behind him, beer in one hand as he switched a few of the balls around so the numbers were in order.

"Oi, girly. Get yer hands of my balls."

Sam took his time fixing the rack before he turned around, schooling his face into a look of disinterest. He eyed the man for a moment before going and fetching the cue ball.

"You hear me?"

"I heard you," Sam said, turning back around and placing the cue ball at the headspot. "And you couldn't pay me to touch your balls." He leaned his hip against the edge of the table and lifted his pool cue from where it rested across the green fabric. "These balls, though… you'll have to play to claim them."

"And what if I don't wanna pay for what's mine?" the man demanded, stepping forward. His size and the ferocity of his glare would have deterred most people, but Sam was definitely not most people. Not even when he was _actually_ nineteen.

He took a casual swig of his beer and raised an unconcerned eyebrow at his giant mess of an opponent. The man's fingers tightened around his pool stick but he let out a growl of acquiescence, probably deciding it was better to wipe the floor with Sam and be done with him than risk getting thrown out of the bar for good because he decided to try and kick Sam's ass.

Sam _almost_ wished he would try.

"One hundred down on me mopping the floor with your hair, _Princess_."

Sam smiled benignly, unconcerned with the nickname. Really, Dean called him a girl at least once a week. Come up with something more original at least.

"Sure," he said, pulling out the hundred he had stuck in his back pocket. He placed it on the edge of the table in plain view and raised an eyebrow at the man, who growled and yanked a few twenties out of his pocket.

"Don't believe I'd keep my bets?"

"I like putting my money where my mouth is," Sam said casually. "Especially since the stakes might get a bit higher as we play." He phrased the second like a question but didn't give the man time to answer as he motioned at the cue. "Challenger's first."

"I ain't no challenger."

"Fine, then. I'll go." Sam moved over to the edge of the table and positioned his shot. He sent the cue ball into the rack with a cracking sound that wasn't nearly as satisfying as the sound the two balls made as they dropped into the pockets.

Sam sent a casual smile at the other man and followed the cue ball around the table.

This was going to be so much fun.

* * *

Dougherty was the name of Sam's opponent and his creativity with swearing didn't get any better the more he lost. By the third game, his face was red with a mixture of fury and embarrassment and he had graduated from calling Sam a girl to using some derogatory language that might have sincerely embarrassed Sam if he hadn't accepted his attraction to men a long time ago. Instead, he simply raised the bet another hundred and watched the man struggle with his pride.

They had gained a bit of an audience. He noted with amusement the glee on some of the faces of college students as they watched the man curse up a storm as Sam put another ball in the pocket. He had dragged out the first game, purposely shooting poorly and talking constantly, keeping Dougherty distracted and unprepared for the fullness of his skill. Sam had won the game by a bare margin and collected his winnings ($300 by that point), and managed to talk the guy into a second game.

Halfway through, the man had started calling Sam a cheat. This was after Dougherty's last opponent (Jonesy, Sam had heard someone call him) had taken a seat at a nearby table to watch. Sam had performed a trick shot that Dean had taught him just to piss the guy off, sending the 6 ball into a far pocket after it bounced against three walls and somehow missed a cluster of other balls. The subsequent cursing had attracted a couple other patrons who joined Jonesy at his table, nursing their beers as they watched Sam trounce the asshole who had spent the last couple nights tearing down any opponent that he came across. Sam kept his attention half on the crowd, listening, and heard murmured stories as they were traded between the patrons. This guy had been an unholy terror, not with his skill but with how he would verbally attack his opponents or even prevent them from backing out of a game. He was unsurprised when the bartender commented to another woman as she refilled her drink that the bar had begun to lose business because of it, people choosing to hit up one of the other areas with nicer clientele.

Sam took immense pleasure in putting five of the balls into pockets on the second round and netting himself another $200.

The man was snarling under his breath as he fixed the rack. Sam leaned casually against the table, chalking his pool cue, and only vaguely listening to the stream of derogatory nonsense coming from his lips. He tilted his head to the side, thinking, and then interrupted with a casual air. "One more game?"

Dougherty snorted. "You think I'm a fucking dumbass? I ain't putting any more o' my money against your cheating ass!"

"I'll bet you a thousand dollars I can get every ball into a pocket before you manage one."

He didn't imagine the hush that fell over the bar. A thousand dollars on a game was a ridiculous bet. Not even on their biggest hustles had Sam and Dean ever dared to bet so much money. For one thing, they rarely had that to spare. For another, it was simply ludicrous. No one would take such a stupid bet.

"A thousand fucking dollars? Are you serious?"

Sam shrugged, not looking up from the beer in his hand. He had ordered another from the bartender while the man stalked the table on one of his turns, trying to figure out how Sam was cheating. "I already won $500 from you. I'll just bet that back and double it. I hit all the balls in, you pay up. I miss one, I pay you back what I won from you plus another five hundred." He finally glanced at the man. "Deal?"

He waited as Dougherty considered his offer. The man appeared to be in deep thought about it, no doubt mentally wading through a lake of alcohol as he tried to weigh the pros and cons of taking the bet. The rest of the bar remained silent, waiting for his decision, and Sam kept the bored look on his face even though he wanted to grin at how much he would enjoy this.

"Nine Ball," Dougherty finally said, looking up at him.

Sam nodded slowly. "Nine Ball," he murmured.

"What's Nine Ball?" he heard someone whisper to a friend.

Sam circled the table, thinking. "Nine Ball," he said, loud enough for the other patrons to hear, "is a game of pool using all nine balls, placed in a specific order." He picked through the balls where they sat in the rack, placing the nine ball in the center and the five behind it. "It requires that the balls be hit into pockets in numerical order, starting with one and ending with nine. Meaning sinking the eight ball won't lose me the game unless I hit it out of order." He looked at Dougherty. "Correct?"

"That's right," he growled out, bravado heavy in his voice. "You miss one of those balls and sink 'em in the wrong order and I get one thousand bucks." His eyes were cruel when they locked on Sam's. "You know how to count, faggot?"

"I've managed to count to five hundred so far tonight. I think I can manage nine." He finished off his beer and set it on an empty table out of the way. "Do we have a deal, then?"

"Deal," the man snarled. Sam found himself smiling in amusement, thinking of Crowley and what was required to sign a deal with the King of Hell. He wondered what Dougherty would say if Sam demanded they kiss on it, tongue optional.

"What're you smiling about?"

"Just enjoying the game." He lined up his shot for the break and hit the cue ball into the first ball in the rack. The balls burst around the table, ricocheting off the walls, and Sam's eyes tracked the ball with the 1 on its front. It had been the first in the rack and missing it and hitting a different ball would have lost him the game right there. Now he needed to be sure it was the first one he sunk.

"Scared, Potter?" Sam muttered under his breath.

Dougherty stared at him in complete confusion, which made sense since that meme wouldn't become a thing for a few years. Sam merely grinned at him and sunk the one ball into the far pocket with absolute fucking glee.

What followed was a game the locals would be talking about for years. Sam sank every ball into the pocket in order, one to nine. He missed three times and during Dougherty's turns, the man failed to pocket a ball even once. By the time Sam sank the nine ball, the man was nearly burgundy in rage, but to his credit, he paid Sam one thousand dollars in cash and didn't try to take his head off with the pool cue.

Sam blushed as their audience erupted into cheers. He pocketed the cash he had received from the man except for a hundred, which he passed to the bartender as she headed over to pick up his empty bottle from the table. "Buy everyone a round, okay?"

She glanced at the hundred, surprised. "Your friend, too?" she asked carefully.

"Everyone," he said, smiling softly.

She huffed a breath and took the bill, patting his cheek lightly. "What a cute thing you are. You got it, hun." She disappeared behind the bar and called out a free round, which resulted in more cheers.

Sam used the noise and the ensuing chaos of drink deliveries to slip out the back door. He could usually drink a few more beers before he had to worry about his state of mind, but he didn't really want to test whether or not a tolerance to alcohol would transfer with his memories across time. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and made his way back toward campus, a small smile on his face.

He'd ruined any chance he had of ever hustling pool in that bar again but he thought it was worth it. After being so soundly trounced, it was likely that Dougherty would make his way out of town as quickly as he could. He might find another bar where he could torment people, but Sam hoped maybe his lesson would give the guy even a second's pause.

He snorted. His _lesson_. He sounded like fucking Gabriel.

Shaking his head, Sam considered his options. The downside of staying in one place was that hustling pool wouldn't be a source of income that he could keep up. Eventually (or rather quickly, if tonight was any example of how things would go), Sam's face would be recognized as someone you didn't bet against. In all likelihood, he would be welcome in Barbed Wire and Lace again, but not permitted to play pool. It wouldn't be the first time he or Dean had been barred from betting on games. Sam could maybe get a few nights out of the other two local bars, and a few more at the bars further away from the campus, but it wouldn't be something he could keep up.

He could run some credit card scams like he and Dean did on the road, but that was dangerous for the same reason. Sam would be staying in the same place for the next four years - for the most part, anyway. He hadn't decided whether he'd be hanging around over the summer and taking extra classes or going off to do some hunts elsewhere. Still, questions would come up and it wasn't worth the risk.

He needed another source of income.

His mind mulled over possibilities, categorizing them in his head as something he might look into or something that wouldn't work. He considered the possibility of getting a part-time job, which was more possible now than it would be later when he got into his more difficult classes, but he still questioned how he would fit that around everything else he needed to do, though he could probably manage it if he planned well.

He was unlocking the door to his apartment when the answer came to him and he nearly tripped over the threshold. He shut the door and leaned back against it, pressing his fist against his mouth to keep from waking his neighbors as he shook with laughter.

It was a ridiculous idea, completely mad, and it would never work.

Sam dropped his head back against the door and gave in to his laughter.

It was going to be hilarious.


	5. Of Coffee Shops & College Woes 1

**Disclaimer:** Still don't own.

* * *

 **Book Three**

 **Of Coffee Shops and College Woes**

* * *

General Studies were one of the most irritating parts about college life.

Sam liked learning. It was one of the reasons university life was such a draw to him, and one of the reasons he was so very good at research. It wasn't a chore to bury himself in a book in search of one piece of information. Sitting through a basic level math class, however, would test anyone's patience.

Sam groaned and let his head drop from his hand onto the open book in front of him. His professor was a bore. His first run-through of college life, he'd put his General Studies off as long as possible, desperate to prove himself capable of entering Law School. He'd succeeded in that, of course, and had an interview before the mess with their dad disappearing and Jess dying, but those last two semesters, filled as they were with the general classes he had been putting off, had been the most painful year of his life. Considering that Sam had literally been to Hell, that was saying something.

Putting off his generals had given him one benefit, at least. He had missed having Dr. Roderick as a professor, and thus escaped the tedium of his monotonous voice as he discussed how to calculate the length of a hypotenuse.

He could feel the pages from his math text beginning to stick to his forehead but he didn't bother lifted his head. He tried to think of a moment during a hunt - _any_ hunt - where Algebra had been of some assistance, but nothing would come to mind.

"Chuck save me," he murmured into page 32 of a $200 piece of firewood.

A high-pitched shrieking buzz reverberating through the room and Sam sat up abruptly. His math book came with him partway, dropping into his lap as he straightened in his seat, every muscle tensing in preparation for an attack. He mentally catalogued what was around him that could be used as a weapon. He was limited to what he could carry with him on campus, but he still had a carton of salt in his bag and a silver crucifix. The desks weren't bolted to the floor so, if necessary, they could block the door or he could break off one of the chair legs (thankfully they were wood and not metal) and use it as a weapon. He cringed at the thought of it being vampires attacking, though the next thought in his mind was _trickster_ , and he _really_ didn't need that sort of distraction right now.

"Everyone calm down," Dr. Monotonous said in his low drone, barely heard over the nervous muttering of students and the rhythmic buzzing screech of the alarm. "If you'll all please form a single-file line, we will be exiting to the right."

 _Why are you so calm?_ Sam wanted to screech. _There could be a demon!_

He forced himself to take a deep breath and think.

It was an alarm. _Just_ an alarm.

 _You're in a school, Sam,_ he told himself. _You're at Stanford. You're not in a war. It's just a fire alarm. Everything's okay._

What did it say about his life that the possibility of being inside a burning building barely registered as a concern?

"Please leave your bags at your desk and make your way out of the room and to the right."

The other students had begun to stand up and make their way to the classroom door. Sam slung his bag over his shoulder. Even if this was a false alarm or a drill and his bag wasn't in danger of being burned to a crisp, he wanted to have what little defense against demons he had _on him_ in case this was a trap.

And he knew now that the demons _had_ been a concern this far back. His eyes moved over the crowd of students as he moved among them, keeping himself near the back but not last in line so as not to draw attention to the bag he was carrying. His eyes found a distantly-familiar head of light brown hair and he felt sorrow well up, rather than the expected rage.

He hadn't officially met Tyson Brady yet. His first week of classes had been somewhat hectic as he determined where he would be going. Those first couple days, he had to resist the urge to go to classes that were no longer on his schedule, even as he marveled over the fact that he seemed to remember the way without having to think about it.

In his mind, he ran over the timeline of things he knew he would need to deal with, and Brady's possession by a demon wouldn't occur for another year. After Thanksgiving Break, Sam remembered. Until then, he would simply need to make sure that he kept an eye on Brady. He wasn't sure about becoming friends with the boy. When Dean came back for Sam, he would leave with his brother, whether or not he was done with university, and he would leave behind everyone here. Creating friendships just created ties that could be manipulated.

Something inside him twisted at the thought of Brady not being there at his side. A voice spoke up in his mind, sounding far too much like Gabriel for his peace of mind. _"Sounds more than a bit lonely, Samoose, going through life with no friends. You wanna live like that?"_

"It's safer," Sam murmured to himself, ignoring the girl who turned to look at him with a questioning expression.

 _"But is it?"_ the voice asked.

Sam closed his eyes and shook his head, the voice dispersing away beneath the sound of the alarm. He followed his classmates as they made their way out into the hall and then outside, a crowd of gossiping students who joined with other classes and peered around looking for the source of the alarm.

He watched as the professors spoke amongst themselves, moving around, or pulled their cell phones from their pockets to text or answer a call. He checked his phone periodically for the time and as it ticked on, the professors began to dismiss their students. He felt like rolling his eyes as the other classes dispersed but their professor stubbornly kept them despite the obvious fact that they wouldn't be returning to the classroom within his teaching period.

Sam was actually surprised when Professor Jameson, who had taught him his general math class in his first go-around, came into view. She spoke briefly with Dr. Roderick and he watched the man sigh before dismissing them with more emotion than he taught the class. There was a collective sigh of relief from the students, who quickly distanced themselves from the area before their professor could change his mind. A few of them had to run back inside for their bags but most, like Sam, had grabbed their stuff when the alarm went off.

The benefit of being so tall was that Sam's gait let him outdistance most of his classmates without much effort on his part. He didn't have another class until the afternoon so Sam made his way off campus, heading to a quieter part of town.

There was a coffee shop here that he had loved coming to, especially when classes were rough and he needed a break. It was set back off the main road and few of the students knew about it. It was more a local haunt and required slipping down a narrow alley between two tall buildings and then walking around a moderately-successful bookstore.

The alley was barely wide enough for Sam to walk comfortably and he knew in a few years, when he gained another foot of height and his shoulders bulked out even more, he would need to move down it sideways. For the moment, he enjoyed the fact that he could walk straight down it and only needed to adjust how he held his bag so the canvas wasn't scraped open on rough brick.

He barely glanced at the windows of the bookstore, distantly noting that there were multiple displays set up within, most likely to attract the attention of new students as they desperately looked for a cheaper alternative to their painfully expensive textbooks. He wondered if the bookstore also sold tissues for when those students realized they really would have to pay more for books than for tuition.

He sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whichever god oversaw the creation of scholarships.

He moved around the bookstore and the coffee shop came into view. It was a single-story building made of red brick, the flat roof covered in green cacti of various sizes and species. Some of them were flowering and Sam took a moment to appreciate the beauty of that much nature localized on top of a man-made structure.

 _Cas would love this,_ he thought, only to feel his smile fall at the thought of the seraph, left behind with his brother in a world that never would be. He had the sudden desire to pray to the angel who would have no connection to him, who would be more an enemy than a friend, just so he could have someone there who was _familiar._

With a heavier heart, Sam stepped past the tables with their large umbrellas and into the coffee shop. The smell of caffeine was bracing and Sam took a deep breath, letting the familiarity of coffee soothe him.

His eyes scanned the inside of the coffee shop. It looked the same as he remembered. A few tables were set up along the far wall, but the majority of the shop was filled with comfortable armchairs, a long, L-shaped couch, and bean bag chairs. There were a few people already there. A couple sat at one of the far tables, talking quietly over cups of coffee and a shared croissant. One of the couches held a girl who had stretched out across its length. Her laptop was balanced on her stomach and it looked like she had been in the middle of an essay assignment when she'd fallen asleep. Her one hand was balanced precariously on the edge of her computer and her head was tilted back on the arm of the couch. She was snoring quietly. Sam felt his lips quirk in amused sympathy. He remembered days like that.

A young man was also lying on one of the beanbags, spread-eagled as though he had been thrown there. His head was resting on the ground in what appeared an uncomfortable angle and one of his hands was wrapped around a cup of coffee that appeared to be empty. Sam eyed him with concern.

"Please don't make me leave," the boy muttered without opening his eyes, and Sam was surprised to realize that he was awake. "I haven't slept in three days and I am very comfortable."

"That's a little concerning since we're only in the first week," Sam said quietly, and the kid opened his eyes, squinting up at him.

"Do you work here?" he asked and the bags under his eyes made Sam wish he had kept going and not disturbed him.

"No."

"Awesome. If one of them asks, tell them I died from the strain of moving into my apartment and it's in their best interests just to let me decompose right here." He closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the floor with a thunk. "Why did I decide this was the year I was going to move out of my parents' house?"

Sam eased quietly away as the kid continued to mutter to himself about foolish decisions. He didn't appear to be missed, so stepped up to the counter and glanced at the menu.

Nothing had changed that he could recall, with the exception of the monthly special. He mostly ignored the new flavors as they appeared and disappeared from the menu. They were usually much too sweet for his tastes. The one time he had tried one, it had been some sort of vanilla ice cream concoction. It had tasted, the barista had told him, like maple syrup and the tears of small children. Sam hadn't believed her and had ordered it.

Never, ever again.

"Welcome to The Feckin' Bean."

Sam glanced away from the menu to the barista. She was shorter than him (who wasn't?) but relatively tall, with long light red hair tied back in a loose braid. He blinked as he took in her attire, having forgotten about the colorful uniforms worn by the coffee shop's employees. Her shirt was a soft brown, but the apron she wore over it was a faded shade of purple, soft on the eyes but still wildly out-of-place. She wore a beret of the same color, the seams of the cap sewn with golden thread that he wouldn't have noticed except for how the overhead lights shone on it.

Her words registered and he met her gaze. "Did you just swear at me?"

Someone behind him snorted in laughter. He suspected the decomposing bean bag kid.

The girl's mouth twisted, though he couldn't decide whether she was trying not to grimace or trying to hide a grin. She tapped the design on her apron. It was… it was a coffee bean flipping him the bird. Dear Chuck, who owned this place? "The coffee shop you're standing in? It's called The Feckin' Bean. Now can I take your feckin' order or you gonna just stand there and look cute?" She gave him an actual up and down look. Holy shit. "Wouldn't mind you hanging out all day, if we're being honest."

Sam felt his face flush with heat. It'd been a while since someone had so obviously flirted with him. "I, um…" What the actual _fuck_? "I'll take a coffee."

The barista raised her eyebrow at him. "Really? Imagine that." She put her elbow on the counter and cupped her cheek in a palm. "What kinda coffee, Sweets? Or you want me to pick something for you I think you'll like?"

Sam flushed a deeper red. He tried to think of what he used to order but the different names of coffees across the country at various shops blurred in his mind. He glanced at the menu but there were too many choices. Nothing stood out. He looked back down at the barista nervously. She was eyeing him not unlike how he imagined a cat might eye a lamed mouse. He prayed for another fire alarm to go off.

Nothing happened.

Thanks a lot, Chuck.

"Sure," he said, trying a smile. "Let's do that. Um… nothing… super sweet?"

"Too sweet all on your own, are you?" She stood back up and winked at him. "I got you covered."

"You, uh… need my name?"

"Nah. Have a seat, darling."

Sam fumbled for a moment. Did he pay now? Had he paid before he got his drink in the last timeline? Had the barista been so obviously _into him_ in the last timeline? He was pretty sure he would have remembered that. Then again, maybe he repressed it.

He walked straight into a bean bag chair and nearly fell over.

Yep. Definitely repressed it, and he would be doing so again.

He made it to an unoccupied loveseat and sat down before he could fall over legs that seemed too long. He felt like a giant on the couch, long legs sticking out like some awkward giraffe unused to its height.

 _Oh god, I really am a moose,_ he thought desperately, and cursed Crowley to… to some place not as nice as the Hell he was accustomed to for starting that blasted nickname.

He sat there, lamenting the fact that he would grow another foot before he hit his third semester, until he saw the barista move out from behind the counter. Her braid was so long it swished from side-to-side like a pendulum as she walked, smacking into her hip at each return.

She flashed him a grin as she maneuvered her way around bean bags with the ease of long practice. "Not allergic to anything, are you, Sweets?"

Sam shook his head. "Not that I'm aware of, anyway."

She held out the coffee - a large, with a cardboard strap meant to guard against heat that bore the shop's symbol. He stared for a moment at the rude coffee bean and wondered why he had never noted the coffee shop's name before.

"Thank you," he said, taking the coffee from her. "What do I owe you?"

She grinned at him again. "This one's on the house for being so damn cute."

Sam flushed again and she laughed, turning around and heading back to her station. He thought he heard her mutter "so damn cute" but didn't want to ask and be proven correct. He watched as she let herself behind the counter but, rather than focus on him, for which he was grateful, she turned her attention to cleaning the equipment.

He relaxed a little into the couch, bringing his coffee up to his nose to smell. The scent of hazelnuts and chocolate wafted up to his nose and he breathed deep. It smelled amazing.

"Nice to see she does that to everyone," muttered a nearby beanbag.

Sam glanced over at the boy who hadn't moved. "Have you finished decomposing yet?" he asked casually.

"Nah. Maybe next week." The kid lifted his head and glanced at Sam. "What'd she make you?"

Sam sipped his coffee, considering the flavors. "Hazelnut mocha, I think."

"I got a cherry chocolate truffle," he said, sitting up and straightening his shirt. "And I think Leah got some mint thing." He waved a hand at the girl who was asleep on the couch. Her laptop was still balanced on her stomach but her arm had fallen and her fingertips were brushing the hardwood floor. "Smelled like those Andes candies, ya know?"

Sam nodded.

"The first time I came in here, she was like a cat with a new toy. It's _scary_. But there was free coffee so I can't complain too much." He held out his hand. "Name's Rey, by the way."

"Sam." He shook the kid's hand. "You come here a lot?"

"Every chance I get. I live on coffee and my parents' disappointment." He scratched a hand through his dark brown hair, making it stand up in all directions. "This your first semester, then? I haven't seen you around."

Sam nodded, taking another drink of his cooling coffee. "I just got here a couple weeks ago. I'm a…" He almost said Law major. "I'm studying parapsychology."

"Nice." Rey folded his legs up and glanced at his empty cup mournfully. "I'm an culinary arts major. Testing my parents' patience with every useless class I take." He grinned, a wild, unrestrained smile that, ridiculously, made Sam think of Gabriel. "But I've got some ideas of what I want to do when I graduate. You?"

"Only just started," Sam said. "I think I have time."

"True." Rey jumped to his feet, stretching until his joints cracked loudly. "Well, I've got class in ten minutes and it takes me fifteen minutes to work up the desire to even care, so I better get going. I'll see you around, _Sweets_." The kid winked at him and rushed out the door before Sam could work through the pros and cons of throwing his half-empty coffee cup.

He leaned back in his seat and slowly drank the remainder of his coffee. He pulled out his phone after a few minutes to glance at the time. His next class didn't start until 2 and it was only 10:23. He should probably head back to his apartment and grab some lunch, maybe throw his laundry in the wash. He would need to add a few more outfits to his wardrobe before they got too far into the semester. He couldn't go to every class wearing jeans and flannel.

Sam finished his coffee and stood up. He glanced around as he tossed his cup in the trash but he didn't see the barista. She _had_ said his coffee was on the house, though he'd feel like a real heel if he stepped outside and someone tackled him for skipping on the bill. The three occupants he could see were ignoring him completely, however. With a shake of his head, Sam pushed open the door.

"Come back and see me again, Sweets!" the barista called from somewhere in the back.

Sam's face went tomato-red and burned about as hot as the coffee steamer.

"You, too!" he called back thoughtlessly, then resisted the urge to slap himself in the face.

He was definitely repressing today.


	6. Of Art Supplies & Ungodly Obsessions 1

**Book Four**

 **Of Art Supplies and Ungodly Obsessions**

 **Chapter One**

* * *

 **Summary:** Sam has made some changes so his time spent at Stanford will help him when he gets back to hunting with Dean. But that means more than just changing his major. Now he has all new classes to deal with, including an art class he thought would be simple to pass. The Apocalypse was easy compared to a semester with a professor known across campus as The Dragon.

* * *

"This is… highly unusual, Mister Winchester." The woman peered at him over the top of the file he had given her. Her thin, wire-frame glasses made her appear imperious and unapproachable, though Sam remembered her as being an incredibly helpful woman during his first run through Stanford. She always made time for those who majored in Law and were assigned to her. Sam had visited her frequently and while her position had prohibited them from being friends, he had always enjoyed their meetings. He would be sad not to work with her again.

"I know," he said and tried not to shift in his seat. "I'm aware that there may be some hesitation since the scholarship I received was to study Law, but I've included a portfolio of my work to show that I am just as qualified to study in a new field. The scholarship won't be wasted."

"No, I'm sure it won't." She lowered the file to her desk and leaned back in her chair, looking at him. "Your choices are ambitious, as well, and the samples you have included display a high level of knowledge in the subject already. That isn't a concern. What strikes me is how… different the two majors are. Law is on a different level entirely from Parapsychology."

"Is it a problem?" Sam asked, slightly nervous. He'd gotten it into his head to change his major to something that would be more useful down the road. He was going to be hunting with Dean again in a few years and he had no plans to fall out of practice here at Stanford, either. A Law Degree would be prestigious but not very helpful, especially considering he could probably pass his LSATs in his sleep if he tried.

She glanced down at the file briefly but shook her head. "Honestly, the biggest problem is that I'm sad to lose you. You have a lot of potential in Law, but I think I could say that of any field of study you put your mind to. You're not the first freshman to change their major, although you're quite a bit more prepared than I would have expected. I'm not going to turn my nose up at that." She shuffled the papers into order and closed the file. "I'll have your major adjusted and the minors you've chosen added to the system. You should be able to access your records online by tomorrow afternoon. They'll show who your new advisor is and the class adjustments for removing you from the Law program." She stood up and offered her hand. "I'm sad to see you go, Sam, but I look forward to seeing what you do with your future. Good luck."

* * *

When Sam stepped into his Painting I class, it was dark.

Not "the professor forgot to turn on the lights" dark, but "the windows have been boarded up and there is no escape" dark.

Sam felt his body tense up, every muscle going on full alert in preparation for an attack. His heartbeat sped up in his chest and he bent his knees, eyes scanning the area, looking for danger. He didn't smell sulfur but that didn't mean there wasn't a demon around.

His instincts were telling him to go, to leave, but there was a class scheduled and students around and it was possible that some of them had been trapped. His mind went to Brady, due to become a skin-suit for a demon, and he couldn't make himself leave if there was a chance someone needed his help.

He moved cautiously forward, into the room, despite the sound of Dean's voice in his head telling him to turn tail and get _the fuck_ out of there. His fingers brushed the wall, searching for a light switch. He shut his eyes to protect them from the sudden change and flicked the switch. He saw the light burst into being even through his eyelids and someone screamed. His eyes snapped open and he dropped into a defensive stance, ready for a fight.

And met the gaze of four very confused freshmen giving him deer-in-headlights looks. They didn't appear… demonically inclined. In fact, the one looked as though she had just woken up.

"Good afternoon."

Sam turned his head, still wary, toward the voice. A woman stepped around one of the many easels that decorated the room. She was an older woman, mid-fifties if he had to guess, with the strangest shade of blue-green hair that Sam had ever seen. It was pulled up in a messy bun like she didn't have time to deal with it, and there were smears of paint in it like she'd wrapped it up right in the middle of teaching a class on finger painting. She wore a large pair of glasses, the thick rims a violent fuschia, and the too-large apron that she wore was splattered with all colors of paint. She was half his size but when she walked up to him, her gaze was sharp, making her seem much larger than she was.

"Did you read your syllabus, young man?" she snapped at him, putting her hands on her hips and staring him down from two feet below his eye-level. "I distinctly recall typing up a note that said our first class would be done _in the dark_ and not to disturb my painters with unnecessary light. Are you perhaps illiterate? Will I be giving you directions via interpretive dance?"

Sam stared at her for a moment, then looked at the other students. They were still staring at him, but some of them had wide-eyed gazes that spoke of concern for his well-being. Perhaps his professor had a history of a temper?

"I'm… uh, sorry?" he asked weakly and cleared his throat. "I was just assigned to this class last week so I actually didn't get the syllabus. I don't think they have my email hooked up."

She stared at him for a long moment, then let out a loud sigh that seemed to cause her whole body to deflate. Sam felt like he had diffused a bomb. "You're the Winchester boy, I take it?"

"Yes?" _The_ Winchester boy? Why did it feel like he had the displeasure of a reputation already?

"Well, either you are or you aren't, so which is it?"

"I… yes, I'm Sam Winchester."

She nodded, as though this had proven a point. "Are you afraid of the dark, Winchester?"

"... no," Sam said slowly. "Although I'm not fond of surprises," he added, thinking of the clusterfuck that could have resulted if one of the students had grabbed him while he was looking for the light switch. He was not certain he wouldn't have pinned them to the wall with a blade to their throat. That would have been… bad.

"Fair enough." She turned and walked away from him, but continued to speak. "I've been told I'm an unconventional professor who's difficult to deal with and a bitch on multiple levels. If you can't handle that, step out the door you stepped in. If you're willing to suffer through a professor that won't take your excuses and doesn't want to listen to you whine-" She glanced back at him. "I am not your mother." Sam nodded and she nodded in return. "Then feel free to stay, but you _will_ work for your grade. This is an art class, not a study hall, and you're not in high school anymore." She executed a military-tight turn and faced him, hands clasped behind her back. "There are three classes that you will spend in almost absolute darkness. This class, the day of your midterm, and the day of your final. The rest of the classes will vary, but for those three days, you will do one thing. YOU WILL PAINT!"

One of the girls on the other side of the room squeaked in surprise at the woman's shout. She was quite loud and the room was small, adding to her volume.

"Today, we will equip you with the weapons you will need to win against every blank canvas that you must face. You will be given brushes and paints, the tools with which to do battle against white space, and your battle armor to protect you. And then we will turn off the lights and you will face the beasts of your nightmares."

She met his gaze and hers was bright with passion. "Tell me, Winchester. Are you ready to face your demons?"

Sam thought of the demons he had faced, true demons, and wondered if the dark would bring them out. He wondered if he should worry what his mind might want to put on canvas, but he nodded anyway. "Yes."

She grinned a feral smile. "We'll see."


	7. Of Art Supplies & Ungodly Obsessions 2

**Book Four**

 **Of Art Supplies and Ungodly Obsessions**

 **Chapter Two**

* * *

By the time class was over, Sam was exhausted. He was also smeared with more paint than he had ever seen _in his life_ and he had once helped Jess paint her parents' entire house. He hadn't bothered removing the apron he had been given, fairly sure he would end up wearing the entire can of blue paint it was drenched in if he even tried. His brushes - so many brushes - as well as the myriad of other tools he had no idea the purpose of, were wrapped in a clear plastic sleeve and tucked in his bag. He also had a stack of blank canvases that he was to pick up later that day, when he was "less likely to smear them with a colorful description of your crotch, Winchester." He fully intended to have a shower first, however, and perhaps sleep for the next three days. Painting in the dark had been _weird_ , but also surprisingly cathartic.

His stomach growled loudly and he remembered that his apartment had a single package of saltine crackers and a can of cream of mushroom soup.

 _I take it back. Give me the apocalypse. It was easier._

"I see you've met The Dragon."

Sam stopped walking and turned at the familiar voice. She looked different without the purple apron and beret, but her smile was the same teasing grin and it was hard to forget hair that long.

"I didn't take you for an art major, Sweets."

"I'm…" He shook his head. "I'm not. Parapsychology."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Oh yeah? Not just Psychology by Para, too? You've got goals." He huffed a laugh and she grinned at him. "So what're you doing in my art class other than _facing your demons_?" She dropped her voice low in mimicry of their professor and he laughed.

"Um, trying to hit all the requirements for my Gen Eds. Art class seemed like it would be… easy."

"Wow, did you pick wrong."

"That bad, huh?"

"She's called _The Dragon_ , Sweets. You don't get that name from being cute and cuddly." She adjusted the bag she was carrying and Sam realized it held a collapsible easel he had seen some of the other students using. It was different from the one Professor Drake was having him pick up later, which was a large wooden contraption hat didn't seem very maneuverable.

"Did you get your supplies already?" He nodded toward her bag at her confused look.

"Ah, no. This one's mine. 'Fraid I don't get to take on The Dragon just once and dash. I'm an art major. I'll have to fight her for my diploma, I bet, right there on the stage graduation day."

Sam found himself laughing loudly and was surprised by how good it felt. He shook his head. "I'm gonna keep calling you The Barista in my head unless you give me your name."

"Not _The Feckin' Barista_? Not doing my job selling the name if I'm just a boring ol' barista." She winked at him. "Names' Kathy, but you can call me whatever ya like."

"I'm Sam."

"Nah," she said with a grin. "Ya Sweets. Already picked a name for ya, darling. No take-backs."

He huffed a laugh and his stomach growled again. "Ugh. I need a shower and food, sadly in that order."

She grinned at him. "I've got to get to work. Come see me again, Sweets." She sent a wink his way and headed off toward the direction of the coffee shop. Sam watched her go for a moment, then shook his head. He headed off toward his apartment, thinking about what he would do for dinner. He could call Giovanni's Pizza before he climbed in the shower and have them deliver something. That would probably be easiest.

What would make it even easier was if he would actually get his dorm assignment. A week into classes and he hadn't yet been told where he would be staying. So much for getting money back on his apartment rental. At this rate, he'd be using up all he won from Dougherty paying for another week or so.

His email hadn't been working when he tried to log on so he wasn't getting any information that way, but when he'd called administration, he'd been told there was a plumbing issue with the building he was due to be assigned, so for the moment, he would need to just stay where he was. He wondered how other students were handling not having a place to live.

 _I'm really lucky,_ he thought, as he trotted up the stairs to his apartment. _I could be sleeping in one of the lecture halls, instead._ He hoped the other students were doing all right and decided to check on the status of the dorm when he had a free afternoon.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and called Giovanni's Pizzeria, a little disturbed that he could dial the number without having to think about it, but the human mind was weird. He ordered a vegetarian pizza that would have made Dean cringe and headed for the bathroom.

He didn't even bother stripping, just turned on the water and stepped in, shoes and all. The water washed down the drain in colorful streams and Sam watched it blur together in a prism of chaos that perfectly described this semester already. At least he only had the class once a week. It would take him the next seven days to recover before he had to _face his demons_ again.

 _Face the dragon_ , he thought and grinned ruefully. If nothing else, the class promised to be... interesting.

* * *

"No, no!" Professor Drake cried, appearing out of nowhere and advancing on the young brunette who cringed at her arrival. "What is this... this... _travesty_?! Are you painting a puddle, girl? Is it an oil spill? Come on now, speak up!"

"It's... it's..." The girl's voice quavered and seemed to deflate the more she spoke, so much that Sam almost didn't hear her shamed whisper of, "It's supposed to be a rainbow."

It was the first time Sam had actually heard the girl speak and they were four weeks into the semester. The timidity of her voice explained why, though, and the snort of laughter from one of the boys on the other side of the room didn't help as the girl withered like a dehydrated flower right on the spot.  
Professor Drake tsked in clear disapproval and Sam prepared to say something. The girl clearly had self-esteem issues. She didn't need a professor dragging her further down on top of students who should really be adult enough to know better.

He spotted Kathy across the room. The redhead had her long hair braided and then wrapped up in a large bun at the back of her head today but there was still a large streak of blue paint behind one ear. She was glaring at the boy who had laughed and the paintbrush clutched in her hand looked at risk of snapping in two any second. Sam hoped she didn't get herself in trouble by doing something foolish like stabbing the bully in the eye, no matter how tempting it was.

He eyed the idiot again but he appeared to have satisfied himself and was focused on his own painting. Sam listened only peripherally as The Dragon told them that class was over and they were, as usual, to pick up their painting station completely and leave the room. She turned back toward her desk and left everyone to pack their stations away. Unlike some of his other professors, Professor Drake didn't have a class immediately following this one, but she still preferred them to have everything cleaned up and be gone within a few minutes of her saying class was ended. Sam had no desire to stoke her ire, so he began to quietly and efficiently pack up his station, all the while keeping an eye on both Kathy and the idiot.

He carried his canvas to the far wall where there were hooks spaced along it for students to hang their paintings. On a campus as busy as Stanford, carrying a wet painting to and from class was nigh impossible. Not only could all manner of dirt get stuck in the wet paint, but bumping into someone could mean anything from dropping your painting on the sidewalk to getting someone's face artfully stamped across your would-be masterpiece. The wall space designated for his class was a blessing and Sam carefully made sure his painting was balanced and unlikely to topple to the floor at the least provocation. The shine of wet paint gleamed darkly at him and he grimaced at his poor attempt. As much as he could imagine the Impala, sleek and shining and beautiful, he wasn't able to transfer that image through his hands the way he wanted. Instead, a blob of black like an oozing puddle of bad decisions spread like a disaster across the yellow dotted line of a well-intentioned road.

Sam briefly thought planting someone's face in the middle of his painting could only improve it.

When he turned to make his way back to his station, he found that the rainbow-painting girl had made her way over to the professor's desk. The two of them were speaking too quietly for Sam to hear and he hesitated, but the girl didn't appear distraught, nor did The Dragon appear particularly draconic. He was about to move closer so he could hear what was being said when movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He looked over to see Kathy waving at him lightly. When she realized she had caught his attention, she sent him a wink and a headshake. Her meaning was clear. He didn't need to interfere with the other girl and their professor.

He sent her a look that expressed his doubts and she grinned at him, walking over. "Trust me, Sweets. You don't want to stick your head in that cave."

He pursed his lips at the clear pun on their professor's nickname. "You sure? The girl looked like she was about to cry earlier."

"Kennedy's a dick, that's why. And Teryn worries too much about pleasing the professors. Trust me, she'll be all right." She made a shooing motion at him. "Now hurry up before Drake realizes you're dawdling."

He made his way back to his station and wrapped his wet brushes in a paper towel before sliding them into the plastic case in his bag. He picked his easel up by its central column and lifted the bar that normally held his canvas while he was working. The other two legs collapsed inward and Sam locked them down before collapsing the legs until the easel was no more than two feet long. He slid it into the vinyl bag it had come with and slung it over his shoulder.

By the third week into this class, he had been utterly sick of the easel the school provided him. A massive, cheaply-made wooden contraption, its rear leg had been the only one that moved, either extending or dropping down against the main frame. It hadn't collapsed, folded up, or been easy to transport. It had also clearly been used over multiple years and he kept catching his hand on rough spots or snagging a splinter halfway through class when he tried to adjust his canvas for a different angle. After his third class, he'd finally gone to Kathy and asked her where he could find a decent easel that wouldn't break his wallet. Rather than laugh at him (although she _had_ laughed, she seemed to do that quite often), she had sympathized with his plight.

Because of their schedules, they'd had to wait until Friday before both of them had off at the same time for more than a couple hours. Kathy had insisted that one did not simply walk into an art store and buy only the thing they were looking for. Once they arrived at DaVinci's Paradise, he began to understand what she meant. The look on her face was very similar to the way Dean looked when they were in a car parts store. Kathy was definitely an artist at heart.

She'd dragged him to the aisle where they kept the painting easels and he'd nearly run away in terror because Chuck have mercy, there were so _many_. Easels of every size, some made of wood and others metal, ranging everywhere from $20 to $300. When he spotted the $1500 all-purpose easel with a crank, he turned around and headed for the door.

Kathy laughed at him (definitely _at_ him, this time) and grabbed his hand, dragging him back. "Don't freak out."

"Too late," Sam murmured, making her laugh.

"Okay, unless you're going to paint for your livelihood-"

"Can I sell my work as firewood? I'd make more."

"Then you don't need that fancy of an easel." She rolled right over his commentary as she dragged him back down the aisle. "So wooden easels are all well and good if you're keeping it in the same place, but not so much for transport. Carrying it back and forth between classes is easier if it collapses. There's some where the legs fold up but they're not as sturdy and a wobbly easel's no good for delicate work." She pointed out some metal ones with joints that tightened and loosened to help keep the easel open or collapsed. "These are pretty nice. Can be irritating if the lock fails on ya, but if you're only taking the one class then it would probably do ya."

Sam hesitated. He really just planned to take the class for credits and move on toward his major, but something was niggling at the back of his mind. He couldn't place it beyond doubt, though why he would subject himself to The Dragon for more than one semester was a guess for a saner mind than his.

Still…

"What kind do you use?"

"I didn't get mine here, but they have one that's similar. It's a bit pricier, though." She walked a little further down the aisle and lifted off an easel that had been collapsed. It was about a foot and a half long all tucked together, folded up so tightly that he could have encircled the whole thing with his hand and touched fingertips to thumb.

"I like this style. It's more secure." She began to open it as he watched. There was a large piece of hard rubber on the bottom that looked like a giant bottle cap. She unscrewed it to reveal the legs, which extended in sections. The back leg unfolded from the top and then extended downward, and the rest of the easel opened like a flower, with a ledge that held the canvas and a firm back to keep it steady. There was even a bar at the top that could be adjusted for different sized canvases so it could hold them and prevent movement.

It was compact and light, Sam noted, as he lifted it easily with one hand. But it was also sturdy and neither rocked nor wobbled. He glanced at the price.

"Sixty is probably the lowest you can go for a decent one that'll last you," she admitted apologetically. "Unless you're shooting for short term."

Again that niggling feeling that was like an itch in the back of his mind. It made Sam's lips curve into a frown even as he tried to determine _what_ exactly it was trying to tell him.

"You can always come back later if you're not sure," Kathy suggested soothingly.

Sam smiled at her and lifted the easel. "No, I like this one." He began to fold it up, making sure he knew how it worked.

"What's the frowny face for, then?"

He thought of demon blood and abominations and endless years of torment and forced his lips into a smile.

"Just thinking of home."


	8. Of Art Supplies & Ungodly Obsessions 3

**WARNINGS:** Depressive thoughts and feelings, The Cage, Lucifer being an arse, etc.

* * *

 **Book Four**

 **Of Art Supplies and Ungodly Obsessions**

 **Chapter Three**

* * *

In all the years that he has existed - and they are many - nothing has haunted him quite so much as the howling cry of a dog.

It shouldn't, he knows. If any of them were to be haunted by the baying of a dog, it should be Dean, but the first time Sam lost his brother, when Lilith was still at their heels, would always be the worst for Sam. The howling of the hellhounds had been beyond his hearing then. He wasn't the one they were after and so he had been deaf to them, but still they haunted his nightmares.

Standing on the rocking outcropping of a high cliff, staring over a storm-drunk sea, the sound of a dog's howling shook the world around him.

Sam knew he was dreaming.

Learning to differentiate between dreams and reality had become a necessity for him to survive the madness that was his life. So he knew that the rocky outcropping, the high cliff, and the wild ocean were figments of his once-shattered mind. But the howl that chased the bitter wind to his ears… he didn't know if that was dream or memory and he feared the answer if he dared to ask.

The air itself seemed to tremble beneath the weight of the howling cry and Sam felt himself shiver with a cold that was likely more than just in his mind. He could feel The Cage trying to form around him, could almost see the edges of it, icy and dark. It superimposed itself over the wide open sky that stretched above him and Sam felt himself cringe away from it, folding his shoulders inward and trying to make himself small.

The walls followed him down, chased him inward, curling around him like the steel contours of an iron maiden, spikes of ice piercing through his skin and tearing holes into his damned and doomed soul. His lungs were filled with the bitter air of an unending winter, his every inhalation a spike of agony both weaker and more painful than the last. He couldn't go on. He couldn't bear it. He couldn't breathe through steel and ice and eternity. Laughter like the jagged scrape of one sword against another choked in his ears and he shook beneath the knowledge that this was his truth. That he was back. That he was in The Cage. That he had never left. That this would always be where he ended up.

"Are you back with me, Sam? I miss you when you go away."

Lucifer's voice was sweet like poison and his breath was cold as he murmured the words in Sam's ear like a lover. He smelled sick, like meat left out to rot, as what remained of Nick's body fell apart around him.

"Say something, Sammy."

Sam shuddered, unable to speak a word even if he had wanted to. He had been out! He had gotten out and he'd had a chance! How was he back here? He had been out!

"Your fantasies are so dreadfully _boring_ , Sam. Although I did appreciate seeing my brother again. Tell me, is that how you imagine he dressed himself when he played being a Pagan? All white robes and gold jewelry." Lucifer laughed coldly in his ear. "Shall I take that form this time, Sam? Would we have more fun then?" Nick's rotting face rippled, changed, and Loki's face - Gabriel's face - replaced it. Sam felt his breath catch in his throat and tears filled his eyes and ran own his cheeks.

Lucifer leaned forward and it was definitely Lucifer. Those eyes, whiskey-gold though they might have been, held nothing of Gabriel. "Why so sad, Sammy? Aren't I pleasing to look at? I promise I'm far more fun that boring old Gabriel." His tongue flicked out and lapped at the tears on Sam's face. Sam cringed away with a whimper. "There, there. I promise it's only going to get worse." He watched as an angel blade fell into Lucifer's hands and that smile, cruel and cold, broke the illusion that his eyes hadn't already shattered. "Do you know what I did to Gabriel, Sam? Do you know what I did that day he stood between us and tried to _trick me_?" He hefted the blade in his hand and grabbed Sam's hair, cupping the back of his head with a touch that was almost gentle. Almost kind. Sam stared up at him through tear-filled eyes.

"It was just… like… this…" Lucifer drove the blade forward.

The blade shattered with a crystalline crack that echoed like chimes as shards burst outward in a cloud. Lucifer's mouth opened in a scream of rage, but what came out was a howl that sent cracks running through the walls of the cage like spiderwebbed fractures in ice. They grew to fissures and light burst through, pure white and blazing, and Sam couldn't look away, didn't dare. Let him go blind, so long as the last bit of the world he saw was the light of freedom as it carried him beyond the cage and Lucifer's torments.

The howl continued, less a cry of rage now than a song that danced on the air, still trembling, still haunting, but hanging there like an aurora of sound, kaleidoscoping across his senses.

Sam felt the tears as they ran down his cheeks, hot against cold skin, burning as the light of daylight seared them blind. White overtook him completely, but the cool rush of air came with it, and Sam contented himself with his freedom as he felt warmth cascade over him from the sun against his skin. Nevermind his eyes so long as the cage and Lucifer were well behind him. The dark faded in, blanketing his vision in black, and Sam closed his eyes.

And then… soft. His eyes opened, still blind, still black, but...

Fur brushed against his face and Sam lifted his head, taking a small step back.

The sky was still there, blue and bright, but taking up most of his vision was a massive wolf. Fur as black as blindness, as thick as rushweeds, the massive wolf peered down at him with eyes the color of spun gold. There were ages accounted for in those eyes, but so too was there laughter. He stared for a long moment, wondering why they appeared so familiar, until the size of the wolf triggered a memory, and he realized _who_ exactly he was looking at.

"Fenrir?"

The giant wolf's head tilted to the side, the large ears perking up. The wolf was twice his size sitting down and he wondered how small he must seem to a creature that could devour him easily. And yet, he wasn't afraid. There was something… not a feeling or even knowledge, but something told him that he was safe here, in this place, with this creature. Perhaps it was just the familiarity of those golden eyes, so very much like Gabriel's.

"My father has been paired well, it seems."

The wolf's voice was softer than he'd expected. He would have thought the voice of Fenrir to be deep and guttural, every utterance like the sound of rocks cascading in an avalanche. Instead, it was a soothing tone, smooth and gentle, like a warm summer breeze blowing gently at his hair.

"Paired?" Sam asked, registering the words.

He didn't know wolves could smile.

The long legs eased out on either side of him as Fenrir lowered himself to the ground. Laying on his belly, his face was level with Sam's, and they stared at each other down the length of Fenrir's muzzle. The wolf's breath smelled of mint and pine, and every exhale was a bath in warmth that eased the chill that still lingered from memories of the Cage. Sam shut his eyes and just revelled in feeling so _safe_.

"A tale for another time when we've longer than the span of a dream." Sam opened his eyes again to find Fenrir staring back at him, his gaze warm and welcoming.

"Why are you here?" Sam asked.

The wolf tilted his head again, regarding Sam with eyes too intelligent for a face that appeared so much like a normal canine despite its size. "You had need of me."

 _But why?_ Sam wondered. Of all the creatures to come to him in his dreams, Fenrir would be the last person he would think of.

Well, no. The last person he would expect to join him in his dreams would be Chuck, honestly, or maybe Michael. Someone who was _supposed_ to be protective and kind. He never would have even thought of Fenrir had the topic come up, and he only knew the creature from all the myths he had read of Loki. He had read Storlusun's _Prose Edda_ , and the tale it told was one of unkindness to Loki and his children. Part of Sam had hoped that it was merely a myth.

And perhaps this was merely a dream.

The great wolf rumbled a laugh like a stuttering wind and turned those bright gold eyes on him in a look as sly as his father's trickster persona. "Dreams are merely gateways, Winchester. That you are asleep as they occur does not make them less real." He bent his head and nosed gently at Sam's arm. Sam lifted his hand and rubbed it through the fur on Fenrir's great muzzle.

The wolf laughed and his tongue rolled out, licking a long line of spit up Sam's arm and over the manacle he still wore, even in this dream.

"You bear my father's mark. I could hear your soul crying out were you deep in my sister's realm. Blessed be the Norns who brought you here so you were near to me."

Sam's mind put meaning to the semi-unfamiliar words even as his eyes traced the symbol on his wristband that he knew belonged to Loki. He glanced up at Fenrir.

"What does this mean?"

The wolf made a groaning noise as he shifted position. "It is the mark of my father, as you well know."

"Yes. But what does it mean that I wear it?"

"That you wear a band bearing my father's mark would itself be a small thing, perhaps marking him a patron, or at least someone you admire. That, in itself, should be no surprise to you. That you bear his mark on _that_ band, however, speaks of my father's regard for you."

Sam's breath caught. Loki's _regard?_

"I am sure you know, tricksters are curious by nature, and my father has never done anything by halves. You have caught his attention and he wishes to… understand, perhaps. This mark is his, and the band is obsidian. It is a stone born of fire and air and earth, and is a stone well known to reveal the truth. I cannot see how it will do so with your truth, however. You are well-wrapped in protections such that if not for your soul crying out and my father's mark, I would not have known you. You are all but invisible."

"Is this a beacon, then?" Sam asked, tugging futilely on the bracelet.

"No." Fenrir nosed at Sam's hand, brushing it away before he could wound himself with his struggles. "I recognize my father's magic because his _seidr_ is with me and has been since my imprisonment. I felt it calling out for another part of itself, so near, and I came to see if it was my father when I heard your soul cry out for aid. That is when I saw how my father had marked you. A curiosity, and a treasure." He smiled again, that teasing laughter filling his eyes and making them burn bright gold.

"A treasure, huh?"

"It is an egg on the other side of the bracelet, is it not? Secrets lie within, and golden presents." He licked his lips.

Sam pushed the giant wolf's muzzle away and was rewarded with a heavy rumble of laughter. "You're like him, you know."

Fenrir's ears flicked upward with pleasure. "Thank you. No one has said so before in a way meant to be kind. It is good to hear that not all creatures view my father so poorly."

Sam's smile fell as his thoughts raced. "The stories of your family… are they true?" He looked up at the massive creature, whose eyes dulled with sadness. "You're not wearing a collar, and there's no sword…"

"Gleipnir is not a collar but a snare about my leg. Her touch is as gentle as a spring breeze, but her hold is as tight as a winter night is long. She is there still, her hold unyielding, and the sword that keeps my jaws apart still rusts betwixt my teeth. But you are dreaming, and here, at least, I have learned to come as I was once, long ago, before it hurt to be."

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered. He reached out and pressed a hand against Fenrir's whiskers, petting the soft fur of his muzzle. Sam knew what it was like, to be so wounded in your mind that even existing was agony. He could not imagine how terrible it would be to spend centuries that way, tricked and bound and trapped by the people you should have been able to trust. There was a prophecy about Sam, too, and the destruction of the world, but Dean has never been cruel enough to lock Sam away before he himself had faltered. There had been the panic room, of course, but Sam had been mad for demon blood then and long lost to his addiction. When he was young, Dean had only ever cared for him. Imagine if he hadn't.

 _I never would have survived,_ Sam thought darkly, his mind turning over the events of his first life. If Dean hadn't been there for him when they were children, Sam wouldn't have made it through John's training with his mind still intact, never mind the rest of him.

Fenrir lifted his nose into the air and out of Sam's reach. Great nostrils flared as he scented the air and his ears twitched. "It appears we are out of time." Sam frowned but then Fenrir's head lowered and he exhaled a warm breath into Sam's face, the smell of mint leaves heavy in the air. "I will see you again, Fjær." His tongue lolled out and licked up Sam's face. Sam shut his eyes quickly as the hot tongue rolled over them and disappeared into his hair. He heard a distant humming growing closer, a low, rhythmic song that grew louder and louder, until it was suddenly blaring in his ears.

Sam's eyes flew open and he sat up, his blankets falling into his lap. A steady, blaring noise filled the room and Sam looked over to see his phone vibrating as his morning alarm tried to shake it to the floor. He leaned over and grabbed it before it could fall and break.

Had it all been just a dream?

Something tickled Sam's hand and he dropped his phone in his lap, turning his hand over.

Across his palm and between his fingers lay long, fine black hairs, like those that catch on your fingers when you're petting a dog. Sam stared at them for a long time, stunned by their existence. He rubbed his hands together, collecting the hairs into one mass, and then plucked it from his skin.

He climbed out of bed and went to go throw it in the trash, but something burned along his skin like a warning and he found himself retracing his steps, back to the bed. He pulled open the top drawer of his nightstand and tucked the tuft of fur in the back, under a book. He didn't know when in the future he could possibly have a use for it but something was telling him to keep it. Despite his wariness at feeling anything with that level of reasonless certainty, he felt compelled to follow the instinct.

Running a hand through his hair, Sam tried to shake the feeling of _hunger_ that had nothing to do with wanting breakfast. On the edge of his awareness, he could almost smell demon blood, and it shook him that the memory came back so quickly and seemed to affect him even now, years before he would meet Ruby.

He scrubbed his hands down his face and snagged his phone from the bed, peering at the clock.

7:52

"Shit!" He shucked his pants and kicked them into a corner before grabbing a pair of jeans from his closet and nearly braining himself on his nightstand as he tried to fly into them. He had British Literature in eight minutes and Professor Grant did not accept tardiness, no matter the excuse. He was still pulling on his shirt as he stepped out of his apartment and turned to lock the door. He heard a startled squeak and looked over to see the girl who lived across the hall looking at her feet with a face as red as a tomato.

"Good morning, Sam," she muttered to her toes.

"Morning, Cecilia." He tugged his shirt down and tried to ignore the disappointed sigh behind him.

"Late for class, bye, Cecilia!" he said, swinging his bag over his shoulder and bolting down the stairs.

"You can be late everyday if I means I get that as a morning view."

Sam ignored the words, echoed as they were down a hall that had deceptively good acoustics. He made his way out of the apartment building and broke into a run, dodging around milling students in his rush to get to class. Professor Grant had a habit of locking the door during class so anyone who was late couldn't sneak in while he was focused on writing on the board. Sam hadn't been late yet and he did not want to get into the habit.

He huffed out a breath. What a lousy start to the week.

He _did_ manage to make it to class just before Professor Grant shut the doors. He ignored the man's irritated scowl as he settled into an empty seat and tried to catch his breath. This was the third night in a row with some variation of a nightmare haunting his brain. If that continued for the rest of the week, it didn't bode well for the midterms that started on Tuesday.

Sam dropped his head to his desk and groaned. _I hate Tuesdays._

"Mister Winchester, if you'll care to join us, please explain the premise of _Beowulf_."

 _I hate Mondays, too._


	9. Of Art Supplies&Ungodly Obsessions 4

**WARNING:** **This chapter contains a graphic panic attack and the aftermath. It is emotionally gutting. Please tread carefully.**

* * *

 **Author's Note:** It appears that Stanford University has a habit of attracting people of a certain sort. For instance, you may recognize a particular wizard who has taken a position as nighttime barista at The Feckin' Bean. For the record, I also claim no ownership of BBC's Merlin.

* * *

 **Book Four**

 **Of Art Supplies and Ungodly Obsessions**

 **Chapter Four**

* * *

When Sam woke up Tuesday morning, it was well before his alarm was due to go off.

He rolled over and stared at the eye-bleedingly bright numbers on the screen before burying his face back in his pillow with a groan. He'd had a restless night already filled with dreams of being late for his midterms. Dr. Roderick had lectured him in the slow, drawn-out monologue that seemed his preference, though Sam couldn't recall a word of it. Professor Drake, however, had turned into the dragon she was so often named and eaten him on the spot. Ultimately, the latter seemed less stressful but Sam would prefer not being late at all.

2:40 in the morning was too early even for him, though.

He pulled the covers back over his head and shut his eyes, trying to fall back asleep. His mind danced with possible topics for his midterm art assignment. That first day of class, after the rest of the students had arrived, the lights had been turned off and they had been handed paints and brushes and told to "draw something that you find inspiring."

Sam hadn't known what to paint. He hadn't considered having a topic in mind before coming to the class. In the end, the only thing he could think of was long nights sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, his brother behind the wheel and Metallica blaring just this side of too loud from the speakers. That had been home to Sam more than anything else in the world, and it was what he was here for, back for. It was what he was fighting for.

He'd ended up painting a road. It hadn't been well-done by any means. Sam had never bothered to paint artistically before in his life. The pavement was too black and the dotted line uneven and too orange, but the sands that blanketed either side of the road were easy, as was the brush and tumbleweeds, mere scribbles of a soaked paintbrush that they were. He'd set the scene during the night, coloring the sky a thick black mixed with purple and dotted it liberally with gleaming white stars, spending far too much time marking out the constellations he knew.

By the end of the class, he was utterly exhausted, but also felt so _calm_ it was almost laughable. He'd felt more himself in that moment than he had since he arrived back in the past. It was as if painting that scene, putting that memory on the canvas, had taken him back in a way not even time travel had yet managed. He was there in the passenger seat, staring out at the road, his brother by his side, as it always should have been.

When Sam looked at his clock and saw that it was past four in the morning and he was _still awake_ , he gave up and climbed out of bed. He was too wired already, too nervous for midterms and everything else.

He showered and dressed, pulling on a pair of faded jeans and one of his flannel shirts, aware that it was likely to get coated in paint at some point during class. He fussed around the apartment for a while, making his bed, sorting laundry and doing dishes, before he gave up and grabbed his bag. Much to his surprise, The Feckin' Bean was open 24 hours, to help desperate college students have a quiet place to work where they could also buy copious amounts of caffeine. It wasn't a long walk from his apartment even in the dark and Sam made the trek easily.

The bookstore, Sam noted as he walked by, was also open, though the clerk at the counter looked exhausted, head buried in a textbook. Sam hoped no one bothered him for a bit if he was actually taking a nap and not attempting to study via osmosis.

He slipped into the coffee shop with a sigh of relief as the smell of roasting beans welcomed him. He briefly expected to see Kathy and get a call of "Morning, Sweets!", but the barista was one he was unfamiliar with. Tall and slender, the man had an unruly mop of dark hair and wide blue eyes. His large ears were prominent but nowhere near as eye-catching as his grin.

"Good morning and welcome to The Friggin' Bean. What can I fill with espresso and chocolate for you today? Or caramel, if you prefer. Or… plain, though I don't suggest that. Ew."

"Isn't it The _Feckin'_ Bean?" Sam asked, eyeing the apron the guy was wearing. It was purple, just like Kathy's, with the same coffee bean distributing the same finger. His eyes caught on the red kerchief around the boy's neck that sat in garish contrast to the rest of his uniform color scheme.

"Well, yeah, but if I say that, my mum'll hear me all the way from home and come here and twist my ears." He flapped his hands at them. "Look at them! She's already got them sticking straight out from my head. They can't take any more!"

Sam chuckled and shook his head. It was too early - _far too early_ \- in the morning to be dealing with the humor of someone so chipper. "I'm definitely going to need caffeine."

The boy laughed. "I gotcha covered. You know what you want?" He rubbed his hands together. "I can make anything you can think up. Just say the magic word!"

Sam frowned at him. "What's the magic word?"

" _Please_. Duh."

Sam grinned. "Please, then." He placed his order with the kerchief-wearing morning person and briefly considered flopping onto one of the beanbags. He thought once he lied down, though, he wouldn't get back up, and instead took a seat in one of the purple armchairs. His eyes roamed the room at leisure, taking in the dark purple walls and the numerous photos of coffee art that hung suspended in gold frames. The whole coffee shop was done up in hues of purple, gold, and brown, the countertops the color of butterscotch candy and the ceiling a soft lavender.

Sam eyed the floor, covered as it was in soft brown carpet, and wondered if he was less likely to sleep through his midterm if he laid down there and took a short nap. He was seriously regretting scheduling classes at eight in the morning. Hadn't he thought during his first run through Stanford that it was a terrible decision he would never make again?

There was a crash and the sound of breaking glass behind the counter that had Sam whipping around. He heard a muttered, "Oh, Gwen is gonna kill me for that," before a series of clatters ensued.

"You okay?"

"Oh, fine. Yes. Perhaps a little burnt but it wouldn't be the first time."

Sam stood up and headed over to the counter to check on the boy. The clatter of dishes continued and then he heard the kid mutter something, but it didn't sound English. His head popped up over the counter and for a moment his eyes reflected gold back at Sam, who blinked in surprise.

But then they were blue again and Sam wondered if maybe he should have laid down on one of the beanbags and tried for a nap after all.

"Oh. Hi. Coffee's almost done. I had a bit of a mixup with where the coffee goes but apparently the floor was thirsty, so… yes." He grinned at Sam. "I'll be done in a minute if you want to sit back down."

"O-kay," Sam said slowly, heading back over to his chair.

He settled down into the soft cushion, frowning as he heard the boy mutter something under his breath that was definitely in another language. A moment later, he came out with Sam's latte, looking no worse for wear.

"Thanks," Sam said, revelling in the warmth of the mug. "What's your name, by the way?"

"Well, depends on who you ask. Kathy calls me Sparks." He shrugged with a wide grin. "But my name's Merlin."

* * *

The door to the bookshop next to The Feckin' Bean had a bell that rang cheerily as he entered. He winced slightly at the groan the cashier let out as he sat up at gazed at Sam with a look he recognized.

"Midterms are murder," Sam said sympathetically.

"You a senior?" the kid asked, scratching a hand through dark hair and making it stand on end.

"Freshman."

"Oh, you poor bastard. You've no idea what's waiting for you. Abort. Fucking. Mission."

Sam thought about the four years he had already spent once getting his degree - or near enough, anyway - and how he was planning to do it all over again. He figured if he actually mentioned that, though, it wouldn't be the time travel that broke this poor kid's brain.

Instead, he set the second cup of coffee he'd bought on the counter and pushed it forward, made especially like Merlin the Nighttime Barista knew this kid tended to like it.

"Oh!" The kid grabbed the coffee like he was afraid Sam would change his mind. "Are you an actual god? Because I will change my religion if this is for me."

"Keep your religion," Sam said, struggling not to laugh, "but keep the coffee, too."

He left the boy to drink his coffee - hopefully he had the sense to wait until it cooled before chugging it - and wandered the store. He'd bought supplies for his classes before they began, notebooks and pens and folders, to stay organized, and a few other things to work on making up some plans. His Japanese class had involved considerably more writing than he had expected, however, and he had used up his spare notebooks. Most likely because of all the pages he had torn out and thrown away after messing up the kanji. His hands had grown steady over the years, writing out different alphabets for spells and sigils, but the steadiness and the skill he'd had wasn't something that had come back with him. The knowledge was there but muscle memory, it seemed, didn't transfer well across time.

Sam moved up and down the aisles, inspecting their selection. They were less expensive than he had anticipated and he wished now he would have purchased some of his supplies here rather than the store across town.

He picked out a few spiral notebooks and a new set of pens. He moved down the electronics aisle and lamented that iphones wouldn't be a thing for a few years. He considered a portable CD player, but the cost of CDs was too high for him to see the sense of wasting his money on it. Even buying cassette tapes seemed an unnecessary expense, so he resigned himself to the silence of poor technology and headed back toward the cashiering station. He was almost out of the aisle when a selection of journals caught his attention.

There was a dark red journal that made him think of burning coals in a banked fire. The color was eye-catching, but the journal could have been any color, as far as Sam was concerned. His eyes were drawn to the image emblazoned on the front. A massive tree with strong branches that stretched across the whole cover done in black, twisting lines like celtic knots. It seemed to call out to Sam and he had to take a moment to double-check that it wasn't actually something supernatural tugging on his senses, but no. Not even a tingle of his burgeoning powers.

He just _wanted_ the journal.

It was only ten dollars and even though he really wanted to save as much money as he could, he _had_ made $1500 from the jerk at the bar, even if he had spent some renting his apartment for another week. He grabbed the journal and made his way to the counter, setting the notebooks in a careful pile and laying the pens on top.

"Classes stealing your soul _and_ your wallet, huh?"

"Seems that way," Sam said, watching as the kid reluctantly set down his coffee so he could ring Sam up. Coffee in one hand and bag of notebooks in the other, Sam headed out of the shop, wondering what he would be spending the next few hours doing before it was time for him to face Dr. Roderick and his algebra midterm. The door was swinging shut behind him when he heard the cashier call out, "Praise be, Coffee God!"

Sam rolled his eyes and headed back to school.

* * *

His algebra midterm involved a lot of internalized groaning, two instances of dropping his head to his desk in an exhausted sense of failure, and one brief moment of actually dozing off. By the end of it, he was not only more tired than he had been when he first woke up, but also frustrated, worried, and suffering a mild headache. He wandered down the sidewalk aimlessly for about a half hour, looking about as dead inside as every other student who had just crawled away from their 8am class. With a final sigh of defeat, he turned and headed back toward his apartment. He would risk oversleeping and the wrath of The Dragon if it meant he could just get a couple hours of _sleep._

He was standing at a crosswalk, waiting for the walk signal with a bunch of other people and lamenting his lack of wings and flight ability, when a familiar voice caught his attention.

"Oh, Chessy, it's gonna be all right."

"No, you don't understand. She looked right at me…" The girl sounded like she was about to burst into tears. "I think she _knows._ "

Sam looked around the crowd of people, trying to locate the source.

"Knows what?"

"I was talking with Rey earlier and he was saying how Drake's like a nesting mother but she's got paintings 'stead of eggs and I just _laughed_ like a fool an' I told 'im that I could take 'er. But I can't take 'er, Ma. I couldn't've ever taken 'er!"

Sam caught sight of the back of someone's head, long copper braid dragging at her hips, and saw the way an unfamiliar girl's hands were gripping her shoulders, face white with fear.

"I looked into the void and it looked into me and I am _unworthy_." She buried her face in Kathy's shoulder and wailed, "I'll never deliver coffee again! I am a coffee failure!"

"There, there," Kathy said, patting the girl's back. "You're not a failure, Cheshire."

"But the dragon lady is _scary_."

"Yes. Yes, she is."

There was a bit of a lull as the other girl sniffled into Kathy's shoulder, but then Kathy mumbled, "I really want to know who was foolish enough to ask for coffee to be delivered to Drake's class. _Especially_ during Midterm week."

Sam made a noise in the back of his throat of agreement but it was enough to catch their attention. The girl lifted her head up and looked at him as Kathy turned around.

"Sweets!" she cried, delighted, then frowned at him. "Oh wow, you look terrible."

Sam snorted. "Thanks."

She didn't leave it at that, though, and trotted over to his side. Sam took a step back as she moved in close, her face mere inches away and her hands having no compunction about poking at him. "Kathy, what-"

"Look at those grocery bags. Did you sleep at all last night?"

"I got a few hours," he said defensively, trying to back away from her. She clung like an octopus, moving with him.

"Pfft! A few hours," she grumbled mockingly. "You need a nap. And coffee. In that order, mister!" She poked him in the side, making him yelp and twist away. "Now, young man. Move your tush."

She poked him in the side until he started moving in the direction she wanted. "Okay, okay, geez." He rubbed the spot she had been poking and sent her his best puppy dog pout.

She snorted at him. "Won't work, Sweets. I deal with _Mer_ lin for half the day." She poked him again for good measure. "To The Feckin' Bean, and step on it. I'm gonna be late for my shift."

Sam didn't feel like facing her ire so he just decided to go along with it. She gravitated to his side and matched his step while the other girl trailed behind and he walked the increasingly-familiar path to the coffee shop.

Halfway through their walk, he heard a shout and the girl behind him gave a startled, "Oops! Gotta go!" before dashing off down the street.

Two campus security guards ran past them a moment later, hot on her tail but falling behind, and he heard Kathy sigh beside him. "Honestly, I'da thought they'd give it up by now. They'll never catch her." She slipped her arm through Sam's and pulled him forward. "Come along, Sweets. There's a feckin' couch with your name on it."

* * *

Kathy kept her word about both the couch and coffee. When they arrived at The Feckin' Bean, she led him quietly over to one of the couches and pushed him down onto it with a command of "Sleep. I will wake you for our midterm."

He was mollified by that, having forgotten that she would _also_ be going to Drake's class for their midterm and so wouldn't be likely to forget. He still expected it to take him forever to fall asleep, if he managed at all. To his surprise, though, the sounds of cups clattering and the various scents of brewing coffee was relaxing. Sam found himself drifting in and out of a dream about a brightly-lit cafe and a plate of cherry scones, him smiling over the rim of his coffee cup at the person across the table. He couldn't see their face clearly, couldn't tell who it was, but their head was thrown back and their laughter was bright and wild.

There was a chuckled, "And what do you plan to do about it, hm?"

Sam woke up with an answer on his lips he didn't have the words for. He opened his eyes to find an unfamiliar scene and sat up quickly, a blanket tumbling off his shoulders. He glanced around, surprised.

The Feckin' Bean was quiet, though not empty. Students sat on tables on the far side, books spread out in front of them, reading or working on homework. There was someone sprawled across a nearby armchair, legs flung over one arm and head hanging off the other. _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ was opened face-down on their chest and they were snoring away.

He lowered his legs off the couch and pulled his phone from his pocket, checking the clock. It was only half past twelve but he felt like he had slept for days. His limbs were heavy and sluggish and his brain felt a bit like a car that didn't want to start. He shook his head, trying to make the feeling of not being entirely there go away but it clung stubbornly to him, making him feel like he wasn't settled in his own body - a sensation he didn't have good experience with and he could feel himself beginning to shiver, a chill of cold air brushing over the back of his neck.

"Oh, Sam, did you really think jumping back through time was going to make me leave? Tsk tsk. You should be ashamed of yourself."

The couch cushions shifted and Sam felt the cold breeze flutter against his face and neck as Lucifer settled next to him. The archangel's vessel was still rotting around him, Nick's face all but unrecognizable beneath the cold expression that was pure Devil and the cruel gleam in his eyes.

"You really _did_ think you were going to get away from me, didn't you?" He leaned in close, his cheek brushing Sam's shoulder, and his breath was like ice against his ear. "Didn't I already tell you, Sam? You're still in the Cage. You're still here with me. And I'm not about to let you leave."

Sam's entire body went icy cold. His vision actually blurred out for a moment, taking the view of the coffee shop with it as a floating sensation filled him. He felt himself list to the side and Lucifer reached out and snagged his arm.

His touch was like falling into a lake in January and bursting to the surface only to find it had already sealed over with ice. Sam's breath caught in his throat and he dug his thumb into his left palm until his vision wavered. Lucifer's face blurred like a camera lens splattered with rain, taking the blonde of Nick's hair and the scabbed and scarred face with it.

But the silhouette of a person remained and Sam felt his lips tremble despite his desperate desire to remain _in control_. He had begun to shiver again, his limbs shaking hard beneath the burning ice of Lucifer's hand and he struggled to pull away from him.

"Now, now, Sam," Lucifer said, but his voice was distorted, skewed. He saw the vague impression of a hand reach for him again and he staggered out of his seat, stumbling backward, his thumb still digging into his palm despite the fact that blood was dripping from his fingertips.

He hit a table and pain ricocheted across his lower back. His skin was freezing cold but his head felt hot, his breath coming in sharp pants as his mind tried to latch onto the truth within Lucifer's lies. He was _not_ in the Cage. He couldn't be. If he was in the Cage, that would mean everything since then had been a lie. Everything up to and including his coming back in time, and that wasn't possible. There's no way that Lucifer could have made up everything that happened. The Leviathans, Kevin, Cain, and Dean taking the Mark. Crowley being an enemy and then a friend. Lucifer wasn't… he was creative, yes, but at being cruel. Lucifer knew how to torment, to torture. To build a world filled with terrible events but also hope?

No. No, Sam was _not_ in the Cage.

"You're not real," he muttered, digging his fingernails into the back of his hand for leverage as his thumb tore into his palm. "You're not…"

"Aren't I, Sam?" Lucifer's eyes glowed red as he rose to his feet and stepped closer. "Are you sure you want to tempt me to prove myself? There's so many people here. What would it take, I wonder. A few hundred corpses lined up at your feet? Or I could just burn this place to ashes around you." He raised a hand and waved it negligently. Flames burst from every surface, rushing outward in trails of white-blue like the floor had been soaked in gasoline. "But you'll be okay, Sam. Don't worry. I won't let my favorite Winchester die. Not. Ever."

Sam felt the tears slip down his cheeks, hot against his icy skin, and his breath seemed to stutter in his chest. The back of his throat burned with smoke and his nostrils were filled with the putrid scent of burning flesh. He gagged against it, bracing himself against the table behind him as he struggled not to collapse. The roaring of flames filled his ears, the sound of glass shattering against heat, but no screams. There were no screams.

Sam lifted his head and tried to find people in the shop, squinting through the smoke and the searing heat of the flames. Everything blurred beneath his tears and he frantically scrubbed at his face, desperate to find these people who were dangerously close to becoming his friends.

"-supposed to have it done by five o'clock and we both know how ridiculous-"

Sam's head jerked back toward Lucifer, startled by the voice. It was too soft to be the Devil's, but as familiar as it was vague. He stared at the blur that was the archangel, frowning at him. He was standing back, away from Sam, arms slightly spread. Sam could still see the blonde of his hair, but something seemed… off, somehow, more than just his body language.

He dared to look away, his eyes scanning the coffee shop again. The flames were still there but they seemed frozen, like one picture overlaid against another. No movement.

"-you have Drake as a professor. Don't think I could handle her, but then I hate painting. I have to paint my parents' house this summer and I-"

The smell of smoke wasn't as prominent. Instead, the smell of coffee was back, almost too-strong to senses that seemed overpowered. The smell of chocolate was sickly sweet at the back of his throat and he felt his stomach churn. He grabbed the edge of the table with both hands and hissed at the stab of pain in his left palm. He glanced down at it to see he had torn the skin open, blood coating his palm and fingers, streaked down his forearm.

"-taking a French Literature class would be easy since I know the language. I have never been so bored in my-"

He frowned down at his hand, staring for a long moment at the wound, wondering when that had occurred. Then his eyes lifted and scanned the coffee shop again. The flames that had been painted across everything were gone. The coffee shop looked normal, though a few tables were cluttered with books and cups, and he could see a chair that had been knocked over and others that were pulled out from the tables. He frowned, scanning the scene.

"-think once this week is over with, everyone will feel a lot better. At least until Finals come around and we all start freaking out again. At least we have places like this where we can come and relax and drink far too much caffeine. I swear, if my dad knew how much coffee I drank in one week here, he would lock me in a tower. Although if Kathy's given you a nickname, I suppose you're well on your way to getting yourself a good caffeine addiction, if you don't have one already. Or just a Feckin' Bean addiction. I think there's actually a support group."

Sam swallowed, blinking his eyes and taking slow breaths as he listened. The words that hadn't really permeated his consciousness before were clearer now. The world seemed less muffled, though there was still an aura of distance around his own mind, like his body and the part of him he could recognize as his soul or his consciousness were overlapping but not fused. He felt as though he could float away if he moved too quickly. The sensation was unpleasant but also not new, though the familiarity didn't make him feel much better. He felt raw, inside and out, as though someone had wrung his limbs like dish rags and drained every emotion. He could feel his muscles twitching in what he recognized as an adrenaline crash, his heartbeat steady in his chest rather than the erratic, screaming jackhammer against the inside of his wrists.

He shivered as a breeze turned the sweat on his forehead into ice and he felt himself take a step back without planning to. His hip banged into the table and he stumbled against the legs of a chair.

"Lock the door, then," someone was saying, their voice pitched low and calm. "More people coming in here is not going to help. Give him a few minutes to come back to himself and for God's sake, _stay back_."

Sam gripped the chair's back in his hand and forced himself to focus on the feeling of the metal pressed against his palm. He took deep breaths and brushed his sweaty bangs out of his face.

"So Kathy said you're a parapsychology major, which seems fake, but she promises she's telling the truth and I really need to know if you've taken the psychic card test. You know, the one from _Ghostbusters_. I've always wanted to know if that was real."

Lucifer was gone. Sam didn't even have to look to know. His voice and the overwhelming sense of him being there had vanished, drawn away to wherever the flames and smoke had gone. But someone kept talking and the voice was still familiar, even if Sam couldn't place it.

He lifted his head and forced himself to look at the couch where Lucifer had been sitting.

She was standing in the same place he had been but he body language was all different. She was relaxed but not arrogant, arms slightly held out to her side in a gesture meant to show she meant no harm and held no weapon. Backed against the arm of the couch, she was as far away from him as she could be without actually moving around the sofa. She was also standing between him and the crowd of people who were lingering by the door, and Sam flinched as he caught sight of Kathy and Rey. He noted there were only about three other people, but he would have felt better if no one had been here to witness this.

"Hey, look at me, okay? Don't worry about them. They're gonna stay back there and pretend they're churchmice."

Sam looked back at her and this time he actually took in her face. He felt his stomach drop down somewhere near his toes.

Her hair was shorter than it had been the last time he'd seen her, but still the same shade of light blonde he remembered. Her green eyes were steady on his, so open and gentle and _concerned_ that Sam felt tears rush to his own. His mouth tried to whisper her name but he couldn't make any sounds escape his throat.

"Kathy said your name's Sam?"

He forced himself to nod even as he continued to stare at her. He hadn't forgotten about her. She'd been the first person outside of his family that he'd truly loved and once upon a time he had planned to spend his life with her. She wasn't someone he could ever have forgotten. Still, faces blurred over time and memories got foggy. In some ways, it was like he was taking her image into his mind for the first time. For her, of course, it _was_ the first time they were meeting. He would have liked it to occur under better circumstances.

"It's nice to meet you, Sam. My name's Jess."

"Hi," he croaked.

She smiled at him, a bright grin that lit up her eyes. "Hi, Sam. Do you want to sit down?" He hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. Is here okay?" She motioned at the couch.

Sam moved forward but stopped almost immediately. Despite knowing that Lucifer wasn't there, he couldn't make himself sit back down where the archangel had appeared to him. He swallowed and shook his head, looking away from her, furiously trying to shove down the clinging fear that was like a bog sucking at him, pulling him back down.

"All right. Is over here okay?" She moved away from the couch, closer to the coffee bar even while she kept herself between Sam and the others.

He nodded and followed her over to the couch that sat in the corner of the room. It was further away from the others and L-shaped. He sank quietly down into the cushions on one end, his hands curled into fists in his lap, and exhaled a long breath as Jess settled down on the far side of the couch, as far away from him as she could be without choosing a different piece of furniture.

"What's your favorite coffee from here?" she asked, and Sam looked over at her again. She was still watching him, attentive, interested in his answer. "Or does Kathy just make you whatever her special is as soon as you walk in?"

Sam's eyes drifted over to where Kathy was. She had opened the door and was ushering the remaining patrons out. He saw Rey glance back at him, a concerned look on his face, before he also slipped out of the coffee shop. Kathy closed the door behind him and then disappeared behind the counter.

"It varies," he mumbled. "Though I like the first one she made me."

"Oh? What was it?"

"Hazelnut," he said slowly, "and mocha."

"That sounds really good. With whipped cream?"

He nodded.

She kept asking him questions, each one spoken in a soft, calm voice. If it had been anyone else, he probably wouldn't have been able to open up enough to answer them, or let go of his nerves. But he knew Jess. He trusted her. Her voice washed over him, soothing, asking questions about his favorite foods or what he liked to do for fun. Always things that related to sensations - touch and taste and smell. It made him think about them. Made him focus on them enough to answer and it seemed to level him out, pull him back down inside himself, until he felt less like he was about to float away.

He found his eyes actually drooping and sat up abruptly. "I have to get to my midterm."

"You have time," Jess assured him, making a "lie back" motion with her hands but not touching him. "It's only a little after one."

"Are you sure?" he asked. Surely it had been longer than that. He felt like it had been hours.

She nodded and held her phone out to him. The backlit digital clock said 1:04 and he breathed out a long sigh. "Why don't you lay down for a few minutes and just relax. Close your eyes."

"Don't want to be late," he murmured, even as he shut his eyes, head leaning back against the arm of the couch.

"You won't be late," she said softly, "I promise."

Sam believed her.


	10. Of Art Supplies & Ungodly Obsessions 5

I've gotten a lot of really amazing reviews lately. You're all wonderful and I appreciate your comments so much. I decided to post this chapter sooner than planned because you've just made my day. Thank you so much.

* * *

 **Book Four**

 **Of Art Supplies and Ungodly Obsessions**

 **Chapter Five**

* * *

The bell above the door jangled cheerily as Sam pushed his way into the coffee shop. He had to hold tight to the door so it wouldn't tear from his hands and he heard the clatter of paper cups and condiments thrown to the floor by the force of the wind. After a short struggle, he managed to push the door closed and be certain it latched, even as the wind continued to hammer at it from outside.

"You must be one desperate coffeeholic to be braving weather as bitchin' as that."

"Gavin, watch your fucking mouth!" came a shout from the back.

"She says as she swears at me," the boy idly commented. He grinned at Sam. "Welcome to the Camelot Rift, my morning-addled friend. What can I get you this fine morning? And don't say alcohol. Morgan threw out my stash last time she found it and she threatened to cut off my bits if I brought in any more. Woman's got no taste for a good whiskey latte."

"Stick to visiting bars on the weekends and leave your concoctions out of my shop." A woman came out of the back carrying a large box filled with cups. Her dark hair was long and wavy, pulled back in a high ponytail from a beautiful but serious face.

"You do recall that I own this coffeehouse, don't you?"

"And I run it. That makes me your boss. And unless you intend to get your business degree and start performing the tasks required to keep this place running, you'll do as I say." She turned to Sam. "Good morning. I'm Morgan and I run the Camelot Rift. This idiot over here is Gavin and his name is on the business license because at least he knows how to sign his name."

"Yeah, not actually an idiot."

"Yes you are. You just don't know it because you're an idiot. But don't worry, I'll remind you."

Gavin rolled his eyes and turned back to Sam. "So, tall, broad, and lucious, what can I get you?"

Sam stared for a moment, startled. "Um… me?"

"You see any other gorgeous looking blokes in here?" He leaned over the counter and stage whispered, "That's your cue to tell me how sexy I look in this apron."

Sam felt his face burn with the force of his blush. Why did people keep hitting on him? He didn't remember it being like this the last time he was at Stanford. Granted, there had been a few people here and there but this time, he seemed to be attracting admirer's left and right. Especially in coffee shops. It was weird.

"Can I… uh… you look real nice in your apron?"

Gavin dropped his cheek into his hand and gave a lovesick sigh. "I'm all kinds of twitterpated. Look at me, blushing like an innocent maid."

"There's not an innocent inch on your body."

"There's quite a few inches that for sure aren't innocent."

"Gavin Noble, I trust you'll be giving Mister Winchester his coffee for free after harassing him."

"Harassment is such an ugly word, Professor Hot Stuff. I prefer being dashingly welcoming to his gorgeous body."

Sam was momentarily blindsided by the name Professor Hot Stuff. He half expected to turn around and find Gabriel standing there, dressed in a tweed jacket with too-long sleeves and a pair of glasses balanced on his nose. He looked behind him and couldn't ignore the flush of disappointment that made his stomach churn.

"Mmhm," they hummed at Gavin before looking over at Sam. They didn't appear familiar but apparently knew who Sam was.

"I'm Sam Winchester," he said anyway, holding out a hand.

"Professor Bennie Ryan," they said, shaking his hand. "I'm hoping to see you in my Arthurian Literature class in the future, Mister Winchester. Which, it happens, I am late for." They looked back at the barista. "Gavin, stop flirting with everyone who catches your attention or I might start to be concerned."

"Ah, Bennie, you got my whole heart wrapped around your very talented fingers, promise. But Sam here's got too much going on that I just can't ignore." He side-eyed them. "Besides, weren't you telling Gwen the other day how sexy she looked?"

"Yes. And I get the good coffee, don't I?" Morgan handed a steaming cup over the counter. "Thank you, my darling sister. Do try to keep my future husband in line."

"I'll do my best."

"Nice meeting you, Sam. You're ever bored of listening to dumbass doctors of bullshit history spew garbage, come join my class. I'll tell you what really happened in Camelot."

The door jangled cheerfully as they left and for a moment, Sam could only stare after them, completely at a loss. And, for some reason, really desperate to take a class on Arthurian Literature.

He turned back to Gavin. "Can I get that coffee?"

* * *

Art had become his least favorite class, which was hugely disappointing since he had really been enjoying learning how to paint. He also discovered that Professor Drake, despite her no-nonsense attitude and reputation as a dragon of the fiercest variety, was a good teacher who passed on her knowledge with no hesitation. Sam had walked in to his class the day after the midterm to find her patiently teaching the shy girl in the class how to paint fur. The individual lesson had leaked ten minutes over into their class but there was no note of rush in Professor Drake's voice and no frustration in her tone as the girl struggled to paint fur using the shown technique. Instead, Professor Drake has quietly encouraged her, complimenting her attempt, and class had resumed. The girl had kept a smile on her face the whole time and Sam couldn't blame her. After the debacle of Kennedy teasing her over her painting a few classes prior, Sam had been concerned he might have to intervene. He was pleased to find himself incorrect.

But not having to worry about the Professor didn't make his art class any less tiresome. Or rather, didn't make dealing with Kathy any less tiresome.

Or not dealing with her, as it happened. Although avoiding her was considerably more difficult than he would have expected.

His only saving grace seemed to be that any time she wasn't in class, Kathy seemed to be due at the coffee shop. So long as he was able to get into class late enough that they didn't have time to talk beforehand and get out before she was packed up, he could avoid her.

It should have been satisfying. Years of packing up and running had made Sam an expert at throwing his things in a bag in record time. He should have been pleased that he was so easily able to get away from Kathy and avoid the others. He'd found another coffee shop so he didn't run into her or Rey or _Jess_ at The Feckin' Bean. Granted, the coffee wasn't as good and the barista seemed to have a ridiculous fascination with flirting with him, but he hadn't run into anyone he knew there. But Sam didn't care to spend his every waking moment outside of class at The Camelot Rift or his apartment, so he had to find some new haunts.

His morning runs had taken him all over campus and he'd found places that were unfamiliar to him. On the edge of campus there was a small park - a project belonging to the horticultural department - that hosted dark green grass, benches, an array of flowers, and a willow tree. It had caught his attention because California got so little rain during the year that willows, which consume a truly impressive amount of water, were very out of place.

But it turned out that the little park area had a man-made pond and the tree sat with its roots part-way submerged in the water. As he ran in the mornings, he found himself consistently gravitating back to that area, until he ended up back there during his break one Wednesday after his British Literature class. It was a quiet place to sit and read, stretched out with his back against a tree trunk, bare feet dangling in the water. There were some rocks positioned nearby with a small waterfall, nothing more than a trickle, but the sound of it was a peaceful backdrop.

As the weeks stretched on and he received his grades back for his midterms, he found himself going back there with his textbooks to study for his classes. Or, after receiving his grade for his art midterm (better than he expected but not as good as he would have hoped), he bought a sketchbook and some pencils and would sit for hours just practicing. It was different from painting, of course, sketching with a pencil, but it helped him learn to create an image with intent. Sam had drawn landscapes before - little things, like trees or houses. It was something that had tended to come out a lot when he was having visions. He'd sketch them idly on hotel notepads or in the margins of books, often without even realizing he was doing it until he'd look back at the book or notepad and find fifteen different renditions of the same subject.

He was doing it consciously now. Of course, trees and houses were the easy subjects, and not just because he hands were used to drawing them (or his mind was, at least). Drawing people was a different story. He'd tried sketching profiles but honestly, how were you supposed to draw a hairline? Did it just appear? Did he draw each individual hair? Was it just a line? He tore up most of the pages of his sketchbook before he'd decided to start smaller than attempting someone's whole head.

He'd searched the college bookstore (not the one by The Feckin' Bean since he was avoiding that) for books on art. One of the early lessons had involved drawing your own hand, so for a while, Sam had focused on the wrinkles at his knuckles and the shadows around his fingernails. Fists, he learned, were ridiculously difficult to draw and he much preferred having to do them from the back, where there was less need to draw the shadows in between curled fingers. He began to understand why so many cartoon characters wore gloves or mittens. It was to keep the artist from going batshit insane.

He'd eventually tired of drawing hands. It bothered him sometimes, looking at his skin and not seeing the familiar scars, and now he had this image in his head of hands that were his but weren't his. Not the him that existed in his own mind, the one that had apparently brought Lucifer to the past with him, despite everything that had been done to get him back here.

It seemed he really was destined to be stuck with Lucifer, no matter what he did.

The first day that he tried drawing someone's hands other than his own was also his last day. Halfway through sketching the handle of something held in a loose fist, he realized that he was drawing Lucifer's hands holding a whip. He'd thrown his sketchbook into the pond and turned and headed back to his apartment, actually forgetting his bag and his textbooks by the willow tree.

He'd found them the next day, no worse for wear and not even wet despite the rain that had fallen overnight (and of course it would rain the one night he'd left his stuff outside).

He bought another sketchbook a few days later but it took a while before he took it with him back to the willow. This time, he chose something different to focus on.

He bought a magazine at the college bookstore - some cheap thing that he'd been sure had pictures of people inside before he'd bought it. He folded it over until the woman's face was visible and then wedged it between two raised roots of the tree so he could keep it in sight before trying to sketch the woman's eyes.

It was surprisingly boring.

Drawing his own hand had been one thing - it was disturbing but also intriguing to see the lack of scars where he remembered them - but he didn't even know who this woman was. Her eyes were pretty, of course - an odd amber that seemed compelling and familiar, even though her face was unfamiliar to him and he couldn't find her name. Pepsi ads apparently didn't include the names of their advertising actors in articles. But though she was attractive and he found her eyes interesting, it just didn't keep his attention.

He found himself drawing from memory, something he hadn't expected he would have been able to do.

Dean's eyes were difficult to draw. Not because he couldn't get the dimensions right or he struggled to remember the exact shape. Sam couldn't have forgotten his brother's eyes if he'd wanted to. But the eyes that his fingers wanted to sketch weren't his brother's crinkled in laughter or the eyes Sam remembered so easily from their childhood. It was brows drawn down over a narrowed gaze. It was eyes filled with suspicion, distrust. It was an angry gaze that echoed with shouts and cruel words. It was _"Listen here, you bloodsucking freak"_ and _"If I didn't know you, I would want to hunt you"_ in an eagle-sharp gaze.

He'd found himself unable to stop sketching until his eyes were blurred with tears that splattered across the page.

He tried drawing other people's eyes but it was no better. The first time he'd attempted his father's eyes, there'd been all the rage of John on a mad hunt and he'd been unable to finish even shading in his iris before he'd had to tear the page out.

Easier to draw were the eyes of the Harvelle's, though his memory of them wasn't nearly as good and Ellen's eyes always seemed to come out stressed and distrustful, if not angry. Charlie's eyes hurt to sketch because, like Jo and Ellen, she had been lost, as well, and because they'd pulled her into this life.

The first time he'd drawn Bobby's eyes, he hadn't even realized that was who he was sketching. Not until he'd finished the sketch, pulled back to look at it, and seen those gruff lines and obvious care. It had hit him all at once that he was still alive. That Bobby, Jo, Ellen, Charlie, Adam - all of them were _still alive_ , and Sam had burst into tears there at the foot of the willow tree and simply cried for hours. Coming back… coming back had been easy, fixing things that went wrong, but sometimes he forgot that it was more than just stopping the Apocalypse. He could save people. He could save people he _loved_.

He'd ended up missing his Painting class, calming himself down only to discover it was three thirty in the afternoon. He expected Professor Drake would be disappointed in his absence but would appreciate it even less if he showed up halfway through and interrupted everyone else's work. Besides that, he was emotionally exhausted and didn't think he could make it through even an hour of class with his focus intact.

Painting was his last class before Thanksgiving break started, anyway. He would have the rest of the week off and he wouldn't be surprised if other students hadn't left over the previous weekend to head home. Then again, she wasn't called The Dragon for nothing…

 _I've faced actual dragons,_ Sam thought as he made his way slowly back toward his apartment, bag slung over his shoulder and head aching. _Drake doesn't scare me._

When he got back to his apartment, he took a minute to shoot his professor an email apologizing for missing her class due to a family emergency. No sense being foolish even if she was a human and not an actual dragon.

Then he threw himself onto his bed and dragged the blankets over his head, determined not to get up until Monday rolled around. Despite the burning desire in his gut to drive to South Dakota and see Bobby, Sam had no cause to do so that the older hunter would understand. For Bobby, the last time Sam had seen him was when he and Dean were kids. Sam just showing up at his door? Bobby would immediately know something was up, and he'd probably call John about it and Sam just wasn't ready to deal with that, yet. He knew it was inevitable, dealing with his dad, but not yet. He needed time to prepare for seeing his dad again. Time to prepare for dealing with the fallout of everything that was destined to occur.

He couldn't go see Dean, though he wanted to. Oh, he ached to see his brother. But Sam knew that if he went to Dean now, he wouldn't be able to resist telling his brother everything. Not now, with a Dean who was so young and still loved his brother. Sam just wouldn't be able to resist.

No. He couldn't risk going and seeing anyone and messing up the timeline. Better he stay here at Stanford and just sleep through the shit holiday.

Maybe he'd wake up and it wouldn't feel like reliving his life was just walking down the same damn path toward Lucifer all over again.


	11. Of Turkey Dinners & Drunken Confessions

**TRIGGER WARNING: Depressive thoughts, thoughts of suicide, possibly attempted/passive suicide by alcohol poisoning, sexual assault leading into non-con elements as per Lucifer being really fucking creepy. Please tread carefully.**

This chapter can be skipped if any of the above triggers are a concern for you. The following chapter will contain a summary of the events. 3 Be kind to yourself.

* * *

 **Book Four Interlude**

 **Of Turkey Dinners and Drunken Confessions**

* * *

 **Summary:** Thanksgiving isn't a great holiday in Sam's experience. Too much whiskey and a loose tongue have him screaming obscenities at angels in the middle of the night. Sam might not remember what happened in the morning but Heaven's not soon going to forget.

* * *

Sam fucking hated Thanksgiving.

It wasn't the history of the holiday, although that was bad enough on its own, but Sam's Thanksgiving "celebrations" never matched up with other people's. Moving around from crappy motel to crappier motel meant there wasn't much chance to sit down and have a good meal, just Sam, Dean, and their dad.

More often than not, the two brothers had been left alone with enough money for a couple days' worth of food only, and no indication of when their father would be back beyond the vague hope that it was before they were forced to resort to digging through the garbage for food.

This, unfortunately, was not an exaggeration and Sam remembered more than once when his dad had gone out on a hunt and taken Dean with him, being resorted to dig through dumpsters for something that wouldn't kill him if he ate it.

And then, of course, there was that time he and Dean went to Heaven.

And fuck Zachariah anyway.

"You hear me, you whiny little shit? I wasn't fooled! Not for one itty-bitty-little-skittle-bittle…" Sam stared for a moment, thinking, then gave a resolute nod. "Moment. Nope. Not fooled.

"He was, though," he said, thinking of Dean. "He thought you were telling the truth and he hates me now. He hates hates hates hates hates me. He threw it away. He waited… he made me watch and then he threw me away."

Sam put the bottle to his lips and tipped it back, the burn of whiskey on his throat hell and a relief a once. He didn't want to be here today. He didn't want to _exist._

"Wanted t'stop us, y'know," he slurred, stumbling across the grass. "He wanted to s-stop us… stop us fighting but we nev'r stop fighting. Fighting's what we're best at. Human thing. We fight fight fight because it's the only way to s'vive even if sometimes all you wanna to do is die. I want to sometimes. Sometimes I just want to stop. Stop and never ever ever have to start again. But no one lets me. Why won't you let me stop?"

He could feel the tears running down his cheeks, cool against hot skin, but they didn't seem important in the face of explaining this. "Cas got it. I think. Cas understood once he fell and was one of us. He understood that we fought even when we wanted to die, because we have to. It's why we exist, isn't it? That's what Chuckles McAssbutt made us for.

"And Gabriel got it. He did. He got it and he stood with us a-and-" His breath shuddered as he tried to draw in a breath. "He's okay. He's okay. You're here and he's okay and it's not going to happen. It won't. He won't die, I won't let him."

"I don't fucking like it. If we're taking opinions. Zero stars. Can I give God a bad Yelp review? Do they even have Yelp yet? And why's it called Yelp? A yelp's a dog noise. The dog yelped when I hit it, y'know. I wish I was the dog. That dog. He's dead, or was dead. Will be dead? I'll be dead too, but it doesn't stick. It never sticks. Should stick. It would be better."

He stopped and looked down at the bottle of whiskey in his hand. "I forgot alcohol's a depressant. I feel like fucking garbage. Cas, why didn't you tell me drinking a whole liquor store makes you feel like a dump truck? Garbage truck. Garbage can. Trash."

He swallowed another mouthful of whiskey, nearly falling over as his head tilted back. "You all _suck_ ," he declared firmly to the sky. "I used to pray to you every night because Dean said Mom used to tell him angels were watching over us. But you weren't. Not watching to guard us. Just watching. Bunch of fucking vultures looking f'r a meal. Every single one of you is a heartless megalomaniac. Even—even Cas hates my fucking guts and the worst part is I FUCKING MISS HIM!" He threw the empty whiskey bottle and heard it smash a few yards away. He couldn't see it in the dark. The park didn't have any lights.

"I wish I could hate you, Cas. I wish I could hate you but you were like my best friend. You were my brother. But now it's all gone. It's all gone and you hate me again but I can't hate you because you're still here." He pounded his chest and winced. "I hate every single one of you except I don't because I can't and why did you make me like this?" He looked up at the sky, the stars blurred by his tears. "Chuck? Why did you make me broken?"

He looked around, searching for where he'd set down the other bottle of whiskey he'd brought with him, but the world danced around him tauntingly. It made his insides feel like angry soup. "M'all full of cracks," he mumbled, stumbling.

He let out a whoof of breath and blinked at the stars. "Why am I on the ground?" He thought about getting up but it seemed like too much work, even for more whiskey. He laid his head back and stared at the sky. "It's bright tonight. I like that, when I can see the stars. It makes the world seem big. Like it's bigger than me and maybe I can't kill it by fucking up. I do that, y'now. I fuck up and I kill the world. S'what I'm good for. Sammy Winchester, the boy who broke the world."

"Maybe Dad shoulda killed me when he figured out what the demon did. Not told Dean to do it. He told Dean and Dean couldn't do it because Dean loved me too much. Loved me more than the world, but then I broke the world and it was too late and Dean regretted not killing me. He told me that, you know. He was done trying to save me. Time to hunt the hunter.

"Guess you did make him in your image, huh? Tells one son to kill the other only Michael was the good son. He didn't fuck it up. Followed orders like a good little soldier. Dean fucked it up. He let me get everyone killed. Everyone. All my fault.

"I really am an abomination," he said with startled revelation. "I always thought Cas was wrong but… but I really do belong in Hell. I thought maybe… maybe I could fight it, but I was made for him, wasn't I?" The tears burned as they ran down his cheeks. "I'm always gonna end up strapped to Lucifer. You know he feels like being chained to the sun while it explodes and just keeps exploding over and over and over and over. I burn up but I never die and I just keep being eaten alive again and again and again and again until there's nothing left at all except even then I know I'm there. I'm gone but I'm there and it never stops. It never ever stops."

"Oh, but the waiting is the worst part."

Sam wasn't even surprised. He turned his head lightly and looked at the Devil. He was wearing Nick's body again, circling around Sam like a predator circling its prey. Nick's face was already rotting under the force of Lucifer's grace, his eyes burning with ice.

"You know that, Sam? The fall is nothing. Knowing it's coming but not knowing _when_ \- that's what hurts."

"You're not really here," Sam murmured. "I know you're not. You're still in your cage. Just in my head. Brought the crazy back with me."

Lucifer's eyes crinkled in cruel amusement, his lips upturned in a grin. "Come on, Sam… just because I'm in your head doesn't mean I'm not here. It doesn't matter where we are. I can still make your life _hell_."

"No," Sam muttered, shaking his head, but the movement just made bile rise to the back of his throat. His heart was already hammering too fast in his chest. That was wrong, he knew that. He couldn't figure out why but something wasn't good. Not good. He needed to get up and go… somewhere. Somewhere. He needed…

"You know how to make the wait easier," Lucifer was saying, his voice gentle but it was just a ruse. Sam knew that. Just a lie. It was always a lie. "Make it so much shorter. All it will take is one little word. That's all. Just one tiny word."

Sam couldn't move as the devil straddled his hips. The cold burned worse than fire, even through Sam's jeans. He whimpered as Lucifer leaned down until he lay across Sam's body like a block of ice, cold fingers grabbing Sam's hair and pulling until Sam's breath choked out of him in pain. Lucifer hissed in his ear. His breath smelled like the graves he and Dean had needed to dig up to burn bones, the ones that had only been interred a few months to a year prior.

"Say yes, Sam," Lucifer whispered on a cold, rotting breath. Icy lips pressed against the side of his neck in a sick mockery of a kiss. "Say yes and the wait will stop. No more hanging on to futility while the end inches closer. Get it over now and we'll ride the sun together."

He couldn't move. Couldn't speak. His teeth were wired together with the clenched force of his jaw. He could feel his nostrils flaring as air thundered in and out of his lungs, almost as loud as his racing heartbeat in his ears.

Lucifer trailed his lips up along Sam's jawline, pressed a kiss just beneath his ear. "Imagine what your brother would say if he saw you now. Stepped back fifteen years just to walk the same path all over again. Not even fighting to make a difference. Not even trying to warn him what's coming. Shame." He trailed his nose over Sam's skin just like Jess used to do when they were making love. Acid burned in Sam's throat and his eyes blurred with tears. "You could have called him, Sam, that first day. You could have called him and told him about me. You could have warned him that I'm coming. I'm coming and I'm going to take you and wear you like a suit until you're threadbare rags on my grace, and then I'm going to let you watch the world burn before Hell greets you as her king.

"And to think, Sweet Samuel, all it would have taken to stop me is telling brother dear what you really are, but of course you know why you didn't." Cold lips froze the tears on his cheeks to ice. "I am everything that you deserve. I am the only thing that you deserve, my little boy king. And it doesn't matter how hard you try to fight it, Sam. Your soul knows. _You will always be mine_." Lips pressed a tender kiss against his temple. "Say yes, Sam, and we'll stop this foolish game of pretending. Say yes and it will all end now. That's what you want, isn't it? For it all to end? I can do that for you. Just one little word, sweet boy." He kissed Sam's cheek. "Say yes."

Sam's jaw unclenched like a vice had been released and he let out a sob.

"Say it."

"Y—"

"I'm gonna stop you right there, kiddo."

The whole world seemed to shift, brightening, like Sam had been sitting in a tunnel, unseen cars rushing by on either side, and suddenly there was silence and calm. Lucifer had gone still above him. Not frozen-in-time still but waiting-to-strike still. Like a snake watching his prey come closer.

"There's enough you're going to regret in the morning without adding that cherry on top of your banana split."

Gabriel stepped into view then, hands in his pockets. He was wearing the familiar green jacket and dark pants. He was shoeless, standing barefoot in the grace, and his eyes were sunshine bright even in the dark night. Sam almost thought he could see shadows behind him, like wings, but there were only spots dancing in front of his eyes. He forced himself to draw in a breath. It burned its way into his lungs, ice cold.

"Get out of here, Loki."

Gabriel offered Lucifer a bemused smile as he studied him. "That's not what you would call me." He tilted his head to the side in a gesture so reminiscent of Castiel that Sam's chest ached with loneliness. "Oh." He looked at Sam then and his eyes were so sad that it hurt Sam to breathe. "Oh, kiddo."

"Sam Winchester is mine," Lucifer growled, laying over Sam like a dog curled snarling over his food bowl. Sam felt his insides curdle like old milk. Gabriel - Loki, he was Loki here and now - knew his name. It was over, then, wasn't it? He should have said yes from the start. He should've never even bothered to come back.

Gabriel — Loki, this was _Loki_ — snapped his fingers and the devil flinched away. "You don't exist," Loki said, his voice like ice and stone - the high peak of a mountain in the thin chill air, unattainable Everest. "You're nothing but dark memories and cruel thoughts wrapped up in a face not suited for radio." He snapped his fingers sharply and there was a heavy weight in the air, the oppressive presence of thunder hanging low overhead. "Now leave."

Lucifer rippled away like a heat mirage, leaving only the cold air of the night pressed up against Sam's skin. He shivered hard against the sudden change. He felt naked, lying on the grass in the cold November weather.

He heard a sigh and his whole body tensed, but it was only Loki. The trickster god dropped into a crouch a few feet from him and eyed him with a serious expression. "You're having a lousy holiday, aren't you, Sam-a-Lamb?"

Sam flinched at the name. It was too familiar to the nicknames his version of Gabriel had called him before Sam had gotten him killed. Like he got everyone killed.

"What're you thinking in that great big head of yours, hm?"

Sam didn't answer.

"All right, then." Gabriel shifted into a kneeling position, one knee buried in the earth. His hand lifted slightly so Sam could see them but didn't reach out, and the pagan god ducked his head until his golden eyes caught Sam's. "Hey there, kiddo. You mind if I touch you? I promise it won't hurt."

Sam licked his lips but he couldn't make his throat work. Instead, he gave a small nod.

Loki moved slowly, his eyes never leaving Sam's. He lowered his other knee to the ground, his legs tucked underneath him, and reached out toward Sam's head.

Against his wishes, he flinched away, and Gabriel stilled above him. "All right, no touching the face." The hands retreated and Sam watched them reach for his own instead. He lifted his arms slightly and Gab—Loki's hand slid beneath his. The god's skin was warm to the touch, like wrapping your hands around a mug of hot chocolate after being outside in the snow, and Sam sighed softly in relief.

Loki chuckled low in his throat. "Like that, hm?" His thumbs ran over the back of Sam's fingers, leaving a tingling brush of warm air behind, like a soft exhale on cold hands. Sam's breath shuddered out of him.

"Did you know that I have never been to Palo Alto before?" the god said softly. "Been all over California, of course. Hollywood's a big draw for a trickster, but I've not been here before. Seems a shame not to've graced this place with my presence 'til now, but better late than not at all." His hands slid around so they cupped the back of Sam's, guiding his hands until his palms were pressed together. Loki bent over him, hands still cupped lie warm sunshine around his. "You sit up for me, kiddo?"

Sam blinked slowly up at him, his brain feeling foggy. He was still lying down. Carefully, he sat up, his back straining to get him upright without needing to pull his hands from Loki's warm grasp.

The god was smiling at him when he was sitting upright. "There you go. We're halfway to standing." Sam gave him a passable bitchface and Loki laughed. "Trust me, kiddo, you are going to be glad not to be lying down for this." He wrapped one arm around Sam's shoulders and used the other hand to pull Sam's hands apart, guiding them to either side of him as he shuffled so Sam was leaning against his side.

The hand against Sam's back pushed forward until Sam was leaning over, blinking blearily at the grass.

"Sorry about this, Sammy." And then there was a sensation like someone had shoved their hand into his stomach and dragged everything upward.

Acid burned the back of his throat and Sam leaned over, vomiting hard into the grass. The arm across his back shifted, hand smoothing over taut muscles as he heaved and convulsed. Loki's other hand was pressed flat against his chest, burning like a brand.

"Easy. Almost done."

The whole park smelled like vomit and whiskey and Sam wanted to cut off his own nose and his taste buds and never ever drink again. There were tears running from his eyes, blurring his vision, and his stomach roiled with nausea. His entire body was drenched in sweat but he couldn't stop shivering. If Loki hadn't had him held tight in strong arms, Sam would have collapsed to the ground and just laid there. He felt weak and ready to just… sleep.

"Not yet, Sam. Stay awake."

"Wanna sleep," he whined, even as Gabriel's hand cupped his forehead from behind and guided his head back. The nausea faded and the feeling of someone digging through his guts disappeared, but Sam's focus was on the warm body he was guided to lean back against, smaller than his but so much stronger. Sam let out a low noise in his throat that he wasn't sure he could have identified if he was sober.

"Shh, sweetheart." Gentle fingers brushed through his hair. "If I didn't know how badly Luci could get inside a person's head, I would be terribly angry with you right now. Might still be angry, to be honest." The other hand ran soothingly across his chest and Sam felt his muscles relax, felt something painful within him ease, like a cramp loosening. "You have no idea how close you were to ending it all right here tonight, and I don't mean by saying yes. Human body isn't meant to hold that much alcohol, Sam. What in Asgard's golden halls were you thinking?"

His head felt muddier than it had a moment ago, like vomiting up his guts had taken all of his clarity with it. He felt raw, and he was fairly sure that he should hurt considerably more than he did, but he couldn't comprehend why he didn't.

Fingers scritched through his hair, scratching gently at his skull, and Sam's eyes slid shut as he hummed in pleasure. "Talk to me, Sam-a-Lamb."

"Gabriel," he murmured. He knew that stupid nickname and there was only one creature in existence who ever called him that. "Missed you."

The fingers stilled briefly. "Oh, Sam." The archangel began petting his hair again. "You are a wonder. Imagine my surprise when you show up before my court, wrapped up like a present just for me, tied and twisted with ribbons of Time. You cannot imagine how difficult it was for me to send you back to your little college apartment and not snap you right into my bed. The only consolation was the hour you asked for, a promise I dearly intend to keep."

"Not gonna take it now?"

"Your boon?" The trickster laughed. "And waste what could be the most interesting date I've had in centuries? Not a chance." His hand reached out and wrapped around the bracelet on Sam's wrist. Sam gasped as it warmed, leaving a ring of heat against his arm and tingling with something more. Something that sent shivers racing up his spine and coiled like a hungry snake in his abdomen.

"Do you think I give just _anyone_ my mark? Oh no. Such gifts as these are limited to a very special few, yet you have tempted my hand further. I have never marked an obsidian bracelet with more than my sigil. And yet here you have me painting eggs in crystal." His teeth bit down lightly on the lobe of Sam's ear. "All over a fucking cadbury creme egg. Samuel Winchester, you have brought me to my limits." His voice dropped down to a whisper, his breath warm at Sam's ear. "What will you think up next?"

"Depends," Sam murmured, smiling as Gabriel hummed in interest behind him. "What would it take to keep you?"

"Do not tempt me, Sam Winchester," Gabriel - Loki, for the fierce claim in that voice was definitely the trickster god - growled into his ear, "or I may weave myself into your path here and twist Fate's design to nothing."

Sam felt tears fill his eyes, thinking of the designs and plans that had so far ruled his life. "Could you?" he asked, and the words came out on a shameful sob. "Could you break prophecy if you tried?"

Loki's hand smoothed over his hair once more and then both of the god's arms wrapped around him from behind, holding him tight. He felt Loki's chin rest on his shoulder, his body warm as it curled flush against Sam's back. "There is faith and then there is following foolishly. I have seen both in my years, both while serving my Father and serving myself. Faith is trusting that there is a plan but knowing that means that you must walk a path that diverges, that forces you to choose, for the tree of your life cannot grow if its trunk does not branch out across possibilities. Following foolishly is knowing there is a plan and believing that the plan in place will take care of everything. That all good deeds will come from a god who watches overhead like a lord over his kingdom, all choices made, all paths chosen by someone else.

"Fate is not a road lined with barbed wire and your path _is not set_. It is Yggdrasil, Sam. You are walking the branches of Yggdrasil, picking the placement of your feet, and it is your choices that will bring you to the fruit that hangs from her limbs. _You_ choose where you walk. And the path will be hard. The journey will be long. But you are Samwise the Brave," he pressed a kiss to Sam's neck, "and I have faith in you."

They lingered there for a time, Loki's hand running gently through his hair, smoothing down his back and arms and easing tensed muscles. Sam's mind wandered, unfocused, grounded only by Loki's smooth hands, his chest pressed warmly against Sam's back. Every now and then, the god would press lips to Sam's cheek or his temple. Sam was certain he was dreaming but he didn't mind. He would save his regrets for when he woke up. For now, he basked in the feeling of Gabriel's arms around him and imagined he was home.

"Come on, kiddo. Time for all Samooses to be getting to bed."

The god stood, hands under his arms pulling Sam to his feet. He wavered, mind like a fog he couldn't balance in, but Loki was there, arm wrapped around his waist, and the god kept him steady as they walked forward.

"S'dark," Sam muttered, disappointed that he couldn't see the stars anymore. "Sky went to sleep."

Loki chuckled brightly at his side. "Oh, the sky's still awake, Samsquatch, but you need to open your eyes to see it."

Sam blinked open his eyes. Oh. He looked up.

"Whoa!" Loki said, laughing, his arm tightening around Sam as the taller man stumbled. "I think all that alcohol went straight to your legs. You are a noodle. A noodle-Sam. Samoodle."

Sam squinted at the god. "Are you drunk?"

"Am _I_ drunk?" Loki guffawed. "Oh, you are in for a morning, Sugarplum."

"M'not a fairy."

"You're something."

Loki's arm was warm around him. Sam liked it. It felt like a hug.

"I could use my other arm if you'd like, give you the full experience."

"You're not s'posed to be reading my head." They had made sure that wouldn't be possible. Sam had the ink all over his back to prove it and he'd check it to be sure it was right. No angels in his head.

"Don't need to when you're brain to mouth filter is kaput, but don't worry. All your secrets are safe with me."

"Y'know 'm all anyway. Or did know. Will know? Time is weird."

"Try being a creature that travels through time _and_ multiple dimensions regularly. I've done things you don't have thoughts for, nevermind words."

"Hedonist."

"You know it."

They were silent for a long time, just walking. Loki guided them through the grass and onto a sidewalk. It was pale and shone like a white river in the dark. Sam was worried he'd fall in and drown.

"Don't worry, kiddo. We're just gonna walk right on top of it like good ol' J.C." Sam blinked at him. "Come on, kiddo, I know you know your Bible stories."

"Jesus?"

"Mmhm. The big man himself."

"You knew him?"

"I kissed his cueball head when he was a baby. You bet your ass I knew him. Fun guy. Big dreams. You remind me of him a bit. You ever consider trying on robes? Be a good look on you."

"It's just like… a bed sheet," Sam muttered.

"Yep! Crawl out of bed in the morning and take your blankets with you. No muss, no fuss. Plus you can skip boxers and no one's the wiser."

Sam was silent for a long moment, thinking. The white river was surprisingly solid beneath his feet. Maybe Gabriel had turned it to stone. But the bedsheets... "You just wanna see my junk."

Gabriel threw his head back and his laughter echoed around the park. "Well, if you're offering, don't think I'm the type to say no."

"You always wanted to… or I did. Thought about it then, before you were Loki."

"Before I was Loki, huh?"

"Mmhm. You looked sexy in your uniform. I liked it."

"Really?"

"Mm… and then we found out you were the trickster and you weren't the janitor and I was sad."

"I'm sorry I made you sad, Sam."

"S'ok. Wasn't this you. Different you. Dean liked the hookers. I think he wanted to take the bribe, but then you brought out chainsaws." He pouted. "Why couldn't we've just used mops?"

Gabriel was grinning. "Mops?"

"Mm, yeah, mops and swords. Like a lance. A clean lance."

"Sam Winchester," Gabriel said, sounded scandalized. "Are you suggesting that we should have compared dicks? Because I want you to know, I love this plan."

Sam giggled and the sound was so ridiculous coming from him that it made him giggle even harder, until his legs gave out and Gabriel laughed as they both sank to the ground. Sam wrapped his arms around Gabriel and buried his nose in the archangel's hair.

"I like your face," he muttered.

"I'm getting that." A hand rubbed up and down Sam's back. It felt nice. "I'm rather fond of yours, too."

"I think I'd like your dick, too. I bet it's pretty."

Gabriel laughed loudly and his hand slipped into Sam's hair. "You are absolutely ridiculous," he murmured, "and I really need to get you to bed. You are far too tempting sitting out here on the lawn."

"'fraid someone will steal me?"

"I'm afraid I might just snap you back to Asgard with me." He pulled away so they were eye-to-eye. "In case you weren't aware, kiddo, I have poor impulse control." He snapped his fingers.

The reappeared in Sam's apartment, sitting on top of his bed. Sam blinked and looked around. "You cheated."

"Are you surprised?" He pushed Sam back until the younger man flopped onto his back and yawned.

"I thought we were going to Asgard?"

"Not today, Samoose."

"Awwwwwww," Sam whined loudly.

Gabriel chuckled and ran his fingers down Sam's arm. Sam shivered and felt his focus return, the swooping sensation of drunkenness leave in a rush. He blinked up at Gabriel, who was grinning down at him. "You couldn't have done that before?"

"Trust me, Sam-a-Lamb, the _last_ thing you want is to have all that alcohol suddenly leave your veins. You would've been worse than sick." He snapped his fingers and the blankets were on top of Sam.

"Did you move them or me?"

Gabriel chuckled. "So many questions."

The blankets were warm like they had just been pulled from the dryer and Sam relaxed back against his pillow as Gabriel carefully tucked the blankets around him. Sam watched him through his lashes, feeling his exhaustion full-force now that most of the alcohol was out of his system.

"You're gonna lose that battle, kiddo," the archangel said, sitting on the edge of the bed beside him. "I can feel your sleepiness from here."

"You won't be here when I wake up." He didn't mean it to come out as a whine but he couldn't seem to help it. He didn't want Gabriel to go. He felt like he'd just gotten the archangel back, even if this Gabriel was different from the one he remembered, didn't go through all the things Sam's version had before… before Lucifer.

"No, but I'll be keeping my eye on my favorite Samsquatch." The archangel smirked down at him. "Or all six of them."

"Six eyes," Sam murmured, blinking slowly. "Is Loki really a spider, then?"

"I do weave a tangled web."

Sam smiled softly. He tried to open his eyes again but he was just so tired. "I'm gonna miss you," he mumbled.

"Oh, I'm not so far away." Soft fingers ran over the skin of his wrist where the bracelet sat. He could feel the smooth obsidian rotating around his wrist. It felt like a bracelet made of cool water and a soft breeze and sunshine. "This is my sigil, Sam, and you Winchesters should know well the power of a name. This sigil is me. You have but to press a hand to my mark to remember that I am here with you, always."

"I thought you gave your mark to others, too." He didn't feel jealous as he said the words, merely curious. Gabriel has been on the Earth for eons. It would be foolish not to think he had been with others.

"A few," the archangel said. "One or two of them were even lovers at one time. But most of my sigils have been put in place to protect those whom I love. You may even know one or two of them. Your bracelet is special, though." Fingers pressed against the obsidian and it let out a low hum, like a finger trailing along the edge of a crystal glass. And then Sam felt it, a flood of emotion like the smell of the sea on a warm breeze, centered around the bracelet on his wrist and yet flowing through him, coursing through his veins. It was everything he felt for the archangel, yet somehow amplified, doubled and catching on the edge of his own feelings to race around again in an infinite loop. His stomach clenched with the cold ache of a want that centered more around his heart than his body, and Sam opened his eyes.

Gabriel was looking at him with a gaze that was ancient and alien, for all that it seemed so familiar to Sam. His eyes were bright gold, glowing like twin suns, the light of them so fierce it stretched beyond his eyes, flowing out from them and around his head like smoke and pure power. Sam heard the gasp leave his lips, watched as Gabriel's brows drew down in confusion and concern.

"Sam?"

"Your eyes." He could only stare at the golden orbs, his heart begging to bury himself inside them and wrap himself up in their warmth. "They burn like starlight."

Gabriel's smile was filled with all the wonder and awe of a child learning that magic was real. "Only for you." And then his lips were on Sam's and they were both burning, tearing through space like a meteor shower, shining bright across the sky. It was like kissing a comet, like holding onto a rocket, like walking on the surface of the burning hot sun and feeling only the cool press of lips against his and love like a brand around his wrist.

Gabriel's thumb rubbed across his temple, his other hand cupped the back of his neck, and Sam's hands reached out blindly. His fingers grasped something soft that felt like the tremble of thunder against his skin and rain sliding under his fingertips. The archangel gasped against his lips and there was something amazing about a force of such power being brought to its knees by a touch.

And then Gabriel's tongue was in Sam's mouth and he could taste lightning like pepper and cloves, could feel the hammering wind at his lips. Gabriel kissed him like this was their apocalypse and there was no tomorrow. Sam rode the hurricane winds of their desire like a bird too in love with the storm to hide from it. And when it carried him down into the darkness of sleep, he fell gladly in a dive that would shame a falcon.

* * *

There were tears on his face when he pulled away. Gabriel kept his forehead pressed lightly to Sam's, revelling in the touch of skin on skin and the connection that flowed between them. He didn't want to leave, but he couldn't stay. Sam would wake up with no memory of him beyond the vague recollection of dreams and that was as it should be. Sam Winchester wasn't ready to have a pagan god archangel as a lover yet, and Gabriel wasn't ready for him.

Nevermind how unprepared the world would be.

With a sigh, Gabriel pressed his lips to Sam's forehead, sealing the last of the memories away in dreams and half-understood thoughts. The human mind was an amazing thing and the subconscious held many secrets. Gabriel, at least, had no need to hide himself from that. Let Sam have him, if only in dreams.

He pushed himself away from Sam reluctantly, climbing out of the bed and turned to face the other man in the room. Half-turned away from him, the young man was looking out the window, giving Gabriel what little privacy he could without leaving the room.

Carefully, he tucked his grace back inside, burying his wings beneath the wild nature magick so interit to his second persona, and let himself fully return to being Loki. He spared Sam one last longing look, before he joined the other trickster in watching the sun rise.

"You'll watch over him for me?"

"I swore I would."

Loki nodded slowly, then raised a hand. "I'm going back to Asgard. There are steps that need to be taken now that so many things have been screamed in Heaven's ears. If you need me, you know how to reach me."

"Of course," the young man said, and watched as a snap of fingers carried the pagan god away. "Safe travels, father."


	12. Of Art Supplies&Ungodly Obsessions 6

**Summary of the chapter for those who did not wish to read it:** Sam gets drunk and starts screaming (praying loudly) to various angels in Heaven about how much they suck and how he wishes his life was different. There were mentions of Gabriel by name and how he is alive, someone named Cas (so not necessarily Castiel), Zachariah, and God was referred to as Chuckles McAssbutt.

Lucifer arrived via a vision and creeped on Sam until Gabriel (Loki) showed up and made him leave. Drunken flirting and shenanigans ensued wherein Sam talks a lot, until Gabriel gets him back to Sam's apartment and tucks everyone's favorite moose into bed.

Sam's memory is (mostly) erased and Gabriel tells another trickster present to keep an eye on Sam for him. The trickster agrees.

* * *

 **Book Four**

 **Of Art Supplies and Ungodly Obsessions**

 **Chapter Six**

* * *

Someone was in his apartment.

Sam came awake all at once and instantly regretted it. The room was a wavering merry-go-round from hell. His bedsheets felt like sandpaper against his skin. Every single part of his body felt like it had been run over by a garbage truck with a personal vendetta. But there was someone in his apartment. He could hear them in the kitchen. Every clatter was a foghorn that made his head pound harder.

Sam shoved himself out of bed and staggered to his feet, or tried to. He ended up, somehow, belly-down on the floor, moaning into carpet. His stomach abruptly flipped over twice and Sam pushed himself up so he could run to the bathroom. He managed to get his arms underneath him before he was vomiting up everything he had ever eaten in his life.

He managed to roll over so he didn't faceplant in his sick and just curled up on the floor, the scent of vomit doing nothing for either his stomach or his head. Screw the burglar in the kitchen. He welcomed death.

Every breath seemed to make the nausea worse. He thought his stomach might have crawled up somewhere in between his lungs. Beneath the smell of vomit, he could detect a whiff of whiskey that made him want to puke some more. He thought it might be on his shirt. He didn't remember much of last night after the liquor store cashier wished him a happy thanksgiving with a pitying smile. He remembered tripping up the stairs at one point, a hand on his arm keeping him from breaking his nose on the steps, and he was pretty sure he'd thrown his shoe at someone at one point. There were golden eyes and something about sword fighting with a mop and bucket, but he wasn't sure that wasn't just dreams or drunken hallucinations. He also remembered something about purple elephants but he thought that was from a Disney movie.

 _"I'm_ the Dumbo," he slurred into the carpet.

"That you are."

The thundering of feet against the floor was a jackhammer against his brain. He let out a piteous whine and curled up as tightly as he could, clapping his hands over his ears. His stomach roiled like an angry pot of spaghetti.

"S'loud," he whined.

The thundering stopped and there was a huffed sigh from beside him. "Honestly, if you didn't look so pathetic I'd be tempted to leave you like this. You'd deserve it for being so foolish."

"Sh'up."

"Rude." The smell of vomit vanished abruptly and then a warm hand settled on the back of his neck. "Come on, up you get."

Sam let out a sound very clearly stating his disagreement with that idea. He was laughed at. "Just let me _die_."

"Don't be so dramatic." The fingers tightening briefly, digging into sore muscles, and Sam groaned in relief. "Up, Sam. I've something for you."

Sam dared to open his eyes, peering blurrily at whoever was talking to him.

"Rey?"

"I'm afraid so." The young man Sam had first met at The Feckin' Bean wiggled a glass filled with a thick green liquid. "A gift from Kathy. She thought you might need it this morning so you didn't spend the day puking your guts out."

"Wha'sit?"

"I was disinclined to ask."

"Mmph?"

Fingers tugged at his hair lightly. "Use your words, Samuel."

"Talkin' funny."

"Or perhaps I was talking funny before and this time I am feeling more generous with myself. But I don't think you're conscious enough for that conversation." He held the glass out to Sam. "Come on, now. Drink up."

It smelled like oranges and cinnamon. Sam wanted to throw up again. Instead, he gripped the glass in uncoordinated fingers, glad when Rey kept a hold of it so he didn't end up wearing it, and drank it down as fast as he could.

It was syrup-thick and the harsh bite of ginger burned his throat, mixed with the Christmasy taste of cinnamon and cloves. Sam swallowed a few times, then let himself collapse back to the floor. Rey huffed at him but Sam merely whined in response.

"Children," Rey muttered, and the boy pushed himself to his feet. "I am making breakfast. Any preferences?"

Sam's stomach curdled at the thought of food. He clapped a hand over his mouth.

Rey snorted. "Let that settle a bit. You'll feel better shortly." Sam heard him walk away, feet still pounding the floor. He groaned and buried his face in the carpet. What even happened last night?

As he laid there, breathing in what smelled like dirt and dog hair from the carpet, his head actually began to clear. After a few minutes, the nausea even settled and the aching in his limbs vanished. Sam managed to push himself to his feet, his head aching only mildly, and stumble his way to the bathroom.

He relieved himself with immense satisfaction, brushed the taste of alcoholic death from his teeth, and splashed water on his face. By the time he exited the bathroom, he felt almost human.

His apartment was filled with the smell of bacon and he was beyond grateful that his nausea was gone. He was halfway out of his bedroom when he remembered that he had thrown up at some point, only… it was gone. Sam frowned at the carpet. There was no way that Rey had come in here and cleaned up while he was in the bathroom _and_ successfully made breakfast. For one thing, Sam had been forced to clean up Dean's vomit more than once and it didn't come easy out of carpet and there was very little in the world more repulsive than someone else's sick.

With a frown, he grabbed a clean shirt to replace the one he was wearing, which, yes, did smell like he had dumped whiskey on it at some point the previous night. He pulled on a pair of jeans he had worn a few nights ago. They were worn and splattered in paint from Drake's class, but among the most comfortable of his things. He decided to forgo socks and just headed into the kitchen barefoot.

Rey had his back to Sam as he entered, standing in front of a stove that was _littered_ with pans. Sam's sink was filled with dishes and there were plates on the small table already piled high with pancakes. Sam stared at them for a long moment. There was more food here than he could possibly eat in a week.

"Are we feeding an army?"

"You've never seen me eat." There was a sizzling sound as Rey flipped bacon in the pan. "Take a seat and dig in, Sam. You've got about two minutes before I come over there and wolf down everything in sight."

Sam took a cautious seat at the table and eyed the spread before him. Rey had already put out silverware. There was a pile of pancakes on a central dish and, as he lifted the lid of a platter he didn't even know he owned, he found scrambled eggs and link sausages. There was an actual restaurant-grade syrup dispenser and he only stared at it a moment. He'd never even seen one outside of diners.

"I… where did all this food come from?"

"God bless grocery stores."

"You bought all of this?" Sam frowned at the food. He didn't think he'd even had any eggs. This was a lot of food for Rey to just go out and buy.

"Sure."

Sam frowned at the boy's back. He had his hair pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck while he cooked. He was dancing lightly from foot to foot, just idly, like he didn't even notice he was doing it. But Sam's frown deepened as he glanced at the clock on the wall. It was only eight in the morning. His drunk ass hadn't even managed to sleep in.

"When?"

"Last night," Rey said matter-of-factly, sliding strips of bacon onto a plate.

"Stores were closed last night," Sam said quietly. "It was Thanksgiving."

Rey stilled. "So it was," he said, and went back to transferring bacon. "I'd forgotten. I don't celebrate, you see."

He turned around and carried the plate of bacon to the table, sliding it into a spare place at the edge before sitting down. He was wearing a light blue button-up shirt, Sam noticed, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He eyed Sam curiously over the tabletop before giving him a fast grin. "Eat up, Sam. I wasn't kidding that I could devour everything here no problem."

He stabbed a fork through a couple pancakes and pulled them over onto his plate. Sam followed suit, though he was more interested in the eggs and a couple strips of bacon. We was halfway through his scrambled eggs when he realized that Rey was still preparing his pancakes. There were slathered in chocolate sauce and powdered sugar, and he had pulled a bag of chocolate chips from somewhere and was sprinkling them over top.

The bacon turned to ash in Sam's mouth. For a moment, he could smell strawberry syrup. He put his fork down.

Rey was still looking down at his plate, attention focused on his pancakes. What color were his eyes again? Were they gold?

Had this whole thing been a trick?

Rey sighed and put down his fork. "I'm not going to get to eat my breakfast, am I?" He looked at Sam. His eyes were a deep clementine orange and Sam flinched away from them.

"Right. I told him this was a terrible idea but does anyone listen to the fox? No, of course not." Rey dropped the half-empty bag of chocolate chips on the table and leaned back in the chair, scowling. His eyes narrowed into slits and it made him look dangerous. Sam felt himself tense in his chair.

"So… what's the plan, then, Winchester? I know who you are. What you are. And you at least have suspicions about me, so... out with them."

Sam licked his lips, hesitating. Then, more softly than he had intended, he asked, "Loki?"

Rey snorted. "Wow. Apparently it goes both ways. No, Sam. I'm not Loki, though I think I should probably be either flattered or insulted that you thought I was." He studied Sam's face for a long moment. "You have the… _specialization_ right, though, I suppose, going from a D&D perspective." His lips curled up in a smirk. "What's that fun thing Loki always loves to say? Oh, yes. Helloooo, trickster."

Sam only stared at him. After a moment, Rey's right eyebrow quirked up. "I am detecting a significant lack of stabbing."

"Are you… do you _want_ me to stab you?"

Rey looked down at his chest. "Not particularly. Though if the urge arises, let me know. I'm rather fond of this shirt and would prefer not to get blood on it."

"You'd be dead, though."

Rey snorted and nodded. "Sure, right. I'd be dead. But my shirt would be safe and that's what counts."

"You… why are you still here?" Sam asked. When they'd confronted Loki that first time, there had been chainsaws and strippers and all manner of attempts to distract them. Not hurt them, Sam understood now, but definitely to keep them from interfering. And, he realized later, to make them understand that nonhuman did not mean monster.

Rey pointed at his plate. "Do you see this masterpiece? This has my name written all over it. And if you're not going to start trying to stick me with sharp things, then I am going to stuff my face." He picked up his fork and eyed Sam curiously as he began to cut his pancakes.

"I'm not going to stab you," Sam said quietly. Rey hadn't done anything to hurt him. He had been an almost constant presence at The Feckin' Bean. Often quiet, sitting in the background reading a book or making sarcastic comments. A friend, Sam had thought, if one that he didn't see as often as Kathy or speak to as often as he might have…

Oh.

He hadn't wanted to get close to people. It was easier not to be hurt when he inevitably lost them if he didn't care for them from the start. Didn't let himself feel, but… but Sam had never been able to do that. He never been able to _not feel_. Dean could go out and have one night stands with girls that he would never see again but Sam couldn't even hang out with someone at a coffee shop without getting attached.

He had been lost to these people before he even met them.

"Good to know," Rey said softly. "Now eat your breakfast. I didn't slave all morning over the stove for these to go to waste. And for Loki's sake, put something sugary on your plate before I _hurl_."

Sam eyed Rey for a moment, then put some sausages on his plate and drizzled syrup over him. Rey made an accepting noise in the back of his throat. The two of them turned to their breakfasts and for a while there was silence between them as they ate, but Sam's mind kept whirling in place. Why was Rey here? Why had he made Sam breakfast? Why had he, knowing who Sam was, knowing he was a hunter as Sam suspected he had meant, revealed that he was a trickster? What was his endgame here? What was he planning?

"You know, I'm not telepathic by any means, but I can tell your hamster is running wild."

"Hamster?"

Rey smirked at him, forkful of chocolate-drenched pancakes hovering before his mouth. "Your mind's running circles, Sam. Hamster on the wheel? It's clocking overtime." He shoved the bite of pancake in his mouth and chewed with obvious relish. "How about, when we're finished with our breakfast, we sit down and have a long overdue chat. You can ask me questions and I'll answer honestly, so long as you return the favor. Sound fair?"

"No tricks?" Sam asked.

Rey grinned. "I'm a trickster, Sam. Wouldn't be one if the tricks weren't a constant thing." He nodded his head. "But I can tone down the constant urge to dye your hair green for a couple hours, and I promise I won't lie. Acceptable?"

Sam was briefly stymied by the comment about turning his hair green, but he nodded.

"Good, then. Now eat your breakfast."

It was a good breakfast. Sam was a big guy and it took a lot of food to fill him up. Buying enough food to feed himself to full every meal was expensive. He'd learned to get used to the feeling of hunger like a constant hum in the background, enjoying a full stomach on the rare moments when he was able. Being able to eat until he was full without concerns about money was a relief, and he was still a little flummoxed by the amount of food left over.

Rey swiped up the last bit of chocolate sauce on his plate with a final bite of pancake and licked his lips. "I am a fantastic chef. This is the best breakfast I've had in years. I may have to name my first restaurant _Sammy's Kitchen_."

Sam snorted and picked up his plate, carrying it over to the sink. He heard a snap behind him and the plate vanished from his hands. Along with every dish in the sink and on the counter.

Sam spun around to find the table clear and Rey leaning back in his chair with a sly grin on his face, one hand still held in the air. Sam stared at him for a moment. "Is that a… trickster thing?"

"Hm?"

"Snapping."

"Oh." Rey lowered his hand and crossed one leg over the other. "Yes, I suppose it is. I hadn't noticed before, to be honest." He thought a moment. "Though now that I think about it, Laverna seems to prelude every action by making some part of her body disappear. Let me tell you, after the first four hundred times you hear the story of her swindling the priest and the lord, you start running when you see her.

"And then there's Kokopelli who, of course, plays a note on his flute. Trust me when I tell you that you do not want to incite him using that around the ladies. It creates all manner of discord and then Eris shows up and there's contests for who's the best trickster." He shook his head. "I usually will a wisp and get out of there as fast as I can. Less mess."

"So… that story about Kokopelli…"

"Impregnating an entire village of women and dashing off into the sunset? Absolutely true. There's a whole host of his descendents mucking about on Earth, no idea that they're one eightieth trickster god. Trust me, if you knew how many people on this campus are descended from deities who simply can't keep it in their pants, you would piss yourself right here laughing. Nevermind the _actual_ summer camp for demigods not far from here."

The wealth of possibilities for knowledge right in front of briefly sent Sam's mind reeling. He had so many questions about stories, whether they were true, how much was metaphor and aesop wrapped up under a well-known name. For a moment, he couldn't think of a single thing to ask, a pantheon alone to even focus on. His mind blanked under the sheer amount of knowledge he could gain simply by _asking_.

"So how's the coffee at The Camelot Rift?"

"Hm?" Sam looked up at Rey to find the trickster watching him with a small smile and an arched eyebrow.

"You asked your question, Sam, now it's my turn." He leaned back in the chair. "So… coffee at The Rift. How do you like it?"

Sam made a face and it was apparently answer enough because Rey started laughing. "I miss Kathy's Hazelnut Mocha." He looked away from Rey's face, down at the cracked linoleum. After he'd had that vision of Lucifer, after the flashback, Sam couldn't bring himself to go back to The Feckin' Bean. Not because he feared the atmosphere would bring another visit from the devil, but because he didn't want to see the looks of pity on the faces of the people he had come to care about, or worse, hear the quiet excuses as they listed reasons they couldn't stand around and talk to him. And, in the end, he'd just been embarrassed at having made a scene, not only in front of friends but also strangers - random patrons of the coffeeshop who had been there to witness his weakness by sheer chance. It had been safer to make the decision himself to stay away, but… "I miss everyone."

"We miss you, too. I could tell you in great detail my adventures protecting you from Kathy, if you want. She has been incredibly determined to check on you and make sure you're all right. I've been trying to give you space but last night forced my hand."

Sam winced. He was very tempted to ask about last night but part of him was sure he did not want to know. Instead, he asked, "Kathy was worried?"

"Lean down here a sec, Sam, so I can smack you." Sam blinked at him, confused. "Dear Loki on his golden arse, you're serious, aren't you? Sam." Rey shook his head and stood. "You know what, I'm not doing this in the kitchen. I need somewhere with cushions before I end up with a crick in my tails." He snagged the back of Sam's collar and tugged, pulling the taller student behind him as he headed toward the small sitting room in the apartment, which was really nothing more than a couch shoved up against the wall and a small chair next to a rickety bookshelf.

Rey pushed him toward the couch. "Take a seat, Kit. I've got some things to straighten in that skull of yours."

 _Kit,_ Sam mouthed in confusion, walking over and sitting down on the couch. He watched Rey fling himself into the dark blue chair, legs dangling over one arm and grin tamped down beneath a serious expression that didn't match up with his posture. He crossed his ankles and stared at Sam for a long moment.

"I don't know what your life was like before you came to Stanford and I'm not asking - your personal life is your business and you've got no obligation to share. I will tell you, though, that we aren't unaware of some of the things that have been going on. And by we, I mean me, Alice, and Kathy."

Sam hunched his shoulders and looked away from Rey. "There's nothing to be aware of."

"Mmhm." Those red-orange eyes were fixedly him in a gaze Sam had trouble avoiding. "How long have you had visions, Sam?"

Sam stood up abruptly and headed for the kitchen.

And found himself right back on the couch.

He froze, eyeing Rey, who had a hand in the air and a grimace on his face.

"All right, I'm a bastard for doing that and I apologize. I won't repeat it. If you want to get up and leave, you're perfectly capable. I won't stop you." He lowered his hand. "But please listen, Sam. I'm trying to tell you that you're not alone. We're here for you if you want us to be."

He pulled his legs down and sat in the chair properly, facing Sam, who had remained where he was even though his muscles were tensed to run.

"Thing is, Sam, I'm not a human. I'm not even a witch. I'm a _god."_ He shrugged. "You'll forgive the dramatics of the statement. I'm aware that you have powers. I understand that you're concerned, and perhaps about more than just that - fine. Keep your secrets. But wanting your privacy and to not have everything carried out into the open like some sale of your personal life does not mean that you need to lone wolf it through Stanford." Rey closed his eyes. "I have _tried_ that, Sam. I have tried to go it alone and I promise you, it _will_ protect you from people and it might even protect people from you, but it means there is no one around to save you from yourself."

He opened his eyes and looked at Sam. "In the end, it's your decision. If you want us there, we'll be there. If you want Kathy and Alice but you'd prefer not to have tricksters messing up your life, then say the word and I am gone." He studied Sam for a moment, like he was trying to read something about him he couldn't find. Sam wondered what it was. "Just… don't try to do it alone. For your sake, please. Find someone to be there for you, even if it isn't us." He reaches out like he was going to put a hand on Sam's knee, then stopped. "Anyway. We're offering. That's all."

Rey stood up, turning away from him and heading for the door. "I'll let you think on it. You know where to find us."

Sam sat on the couch and listened as the trickster made his way out of the apartment through the door and down the stairs. He stared at the empty chair Rey had left behind and wondered.

After a moment, he rose and moved to the window, peering outside. He waited only a few moments before Rey appeared, exiting the apartment complex through the door like a normal person. Only once he felt his own surprise did Sam realize he had forgotten to ask Rey which trickster he was. He'd failed to ask any of the million questions that had come to his mind.

He wondered if he had lost his chance?

But Rey had been very up-front about being there for Sam. Or, he had said, about leaving if that was what Sam needed. If he would feel better about the trickster not being there, because Rey knew who he was. Sam was beginning to think that most everyone knew who he was. John had certainly given the Winchester name a reputation, though it was definitely not one that would help them at all in the future. It hadn't the last time, that was for sure.

It would have been easier if he had used a different name when he came to Stanford, but the truth was, he wanted Dean to be able to find him if he ever tried, and taking a new name… that was good for short stints, but for long endeavors? It made things difficult. It was also dangerous to try and carry a false identity while staying in the same place. Too many ways that it could come out as a lie. So he had used Sam Winchester, because he hadn't _wanted_ to be anyone else, and the first time around, Sam hadn't realized just how well-known the name was to the creatures who roamed on the supernatural side of things.

So Rey had probably known from the very start who he was. But, Rey hadn't kept his own identity any sort of secret. In fact, Sam realized, as he recounted that morning's event, the clues had been all but _blatant_.

Not just the pancakes. That had been the final clue. Running it back through his head, Sam put the others into place. After he'd been sick, the sudden disappearance of the smell of vomit and his later confusion at his floor being clean. The fact that his kitchen was filled to the brim with food he knew he hadn't had and which Rey could not have purchased with all of the stores closed for the holiday. The hangover cure was a toss-up. He and Dean had a similar cure, though it usually left them feeling a different kind of miserable once the hangover itself had faded. Instead, he felt fine. As though he hadn't drunk a drop, in fact.

He was sure there had been other clues. The fact that someone was in his apartment was questionable, although Sam actually wasn't sure how he had gotten home last night. He searched his mind but he simply couldn't remember what had occurred the previous night, and that disturbed him. He could have put himself in significant danger, or worse, hurt someone.

Sam breathed out a sigh, his mind whirling.

The thing was, Sam _liked_ Rey. They didn't talk much and besides today, the only time Sam ever saw the other boy was in The Feckin' Bean, but if Rey had known who he was from the start, then that probably explained why they didn't hang out much at all. He had even commented on the lack of stabbing once Sam had figured out he was a trickster, because he had _expected it_.

And Sam didn't want to be the person people expected to kill them. Years working with angels and demons and tricksters against humans and angels and monsters alike had taught him what he had already known, but with certainty. That they were just as good and just as evil and just as flawed as humans.

The difference was, supernatural creatures existed in the same world as Sam. He had tried living in the real world, living a normal life, but the simple fact was that he didn't belong there. That had never been his world.

And yes, sometimes that was a bitter pill to swallow. The choice of which world to dwell in had never been Sam's. He'd been pulled there, over and over, by the will of others. It was cruel, but it was also simply the way it _was_. Sam could either continue to fight it and lose until it eventually destroyed him, or he could accept it and live the life he had been given.

And the truth was, Sam didn't _like_ being alone. He could do it when he needed to, of course, but being a hunter and being part of a world that didn't include most other humans was lonely enough. The first time he'd gone through Stanford, it had been hell at first. Sam had always had Dean in his life, and suddenly his brother wasn't there and Sam was surrounded by people who were worrying foremost about school and grades and relationships, not about the threat of attack around every corner. He had tried shutting off the part of himself that saw the monsters in dark corners and the eyes that peered out of shadows, and for a while, he had managed it. Falling into a relationship with Jess had helped. He'd made friends in Brady and some other students and he'd quietly ignored the thoughts that whispered that he could never tell them everything. That they could never know who he really was.

This time, he had no intention of becoming close with Brady. He'd deal with the demon when it became an issue, but he couldn't bring himself to befriend the boy who had been a demon for most of their acquaintance.

As for Jess… he had loved her once, but that was more than two lifetimes in the past. Sam was so different now, even newly nineteen again, and the love he had once had for her was a memory he would cherish but not cling to. He hadn't even intended to seek her out, concerned that seeing her would bring him pain, but they had crossed paths nonetheless. He was not entirely sure what to do with the fact that he now knew her in this life, and she him.

The fact was, though, that Sam _didn't want to be alone_ , and he could ignore the draw of Brady and Jess, both of them human and outside the world he knew best. But Rey? Rey was offering the friendship of a trickster, a creature who lived in the world that Sam had accepted as his, and who could take care of himself. Sam wouldn't need to constantly worry because Sam had been at the mercy of a trickster in the past - granted, an archangel turned trickster - but he knew well the power they held. He didn't need to fear for Rey's safety just being associated with him, and if Rey was offering, then he clearly didn't _care_.

Maybe, for once in his life, Sam should shut up and listen to the trickster.


	13. Of Music & Memories 1

**Book Five**

 **Of Music & Memories**

 **Chapter One**

* * *

 **Summary:** Heaven is in an uproar after the drunken ramblings of one of the vessels of The Apocalypse. There are questions being asked and Heaven is demanding answers. Samandriel is one of the angels who have been chosen to go to Earth and search for Lucifer's vessel.

He didn't really expect to be the one to find him.

* * *

Heaven was in a full-blown meltdown and had been since the drunken ramblings of one vessel of Lucifer. Michael and Raphael had been seen (and heard) trying to out-scream one another in an argument that had seraphs scattering to avoid gaining their attention.

So far, fifty-some angels had been sent to Earth to perform a myriad of duties, most of them along the lines of "find the vessel of the Morningstar."

Samandriel, of the last flock of angels created by their Father, had never expected to have been chosen for a mission. He was the youngest of the angels, the very last one created by their Father, but that did not mean he was _young_. Samandriel had been alive when dinosaurs were roaming the Earth. He had been a participant in the creation of the saber-toothed tiger. If shouting "It needs more teeth! Raaawr!" in Gabriel's ear counted as participation. It had resulted in the long canine teeth the prehistoric feline wielded, and much laughter from Gabriel when Samandriel asked if the the length of the beast's teeth was supposed to make up for its stubby legs.

But that was eons ago, no matter that the incident was branded upon Samandriel's memory. Gabriel was dead and had been since The War shook Heaven and sent angels Falling, their grace twisted as they followed Lucifer into the plane that would become known as Hell. Heaven, once a place of laughter and joy, had become the battle camp of an army too tired of the fighting to go on but not knowing what else there was to do.

That left them little choice but to follow orders. Few had desires beyond that, for though returning Heaven to the glory and home it had once been was the wish on many minds, succeeding at such an endeavor required a plan. And in Heaven, the only plan that mattered was the one that ended everything.

Samandriel's wings carried him around Heaven, away from the main areas filled with gossiping angels. The one he sought spent little time among the crowds, preferring stillness and silence.

"Castiel?" he called softly, as he landed lightly on one of the fields. The grass here was a light shade of green, almost jade, and waved in a non-existent wind. Each blade hummed with a quiet song, a soft music that angels had once known the words to and sung along with. Like many things, that had also been lost.

"Hello, Samandriel." Castiel was sitting on the top of the hill, overlooking the forest of trees that stretched seemingly for miles beneath him. "I have heard that you have a mission."

Castiel was considerably larger than Samandriel and he towered over the younger angel. He had three sides to his face and it was the human-like face that looked down at Samandriel, while the lion and bull continued to stare over the landscape. "Should you not already be on your way?"

"I wanted to say goodbye," Samandriel said softly, shuffling his feet. In all honesty, he certainly should have left by now, and if Naomi heard of his hesitation, she would be sorely displeased. Samandriel had always been something of an outcast in Heaven, however, and Naomi was often displeased with him, just as she was with Castiel. Samandriel thought it was worth it to risk her ire to see his favorite brother.

One of Castiel's wings stretched out, curling around his back and tugging him closer. Samandriel felt a smile curl over both sets of his lips and he snuggled into Castiel's side. His brother smelled of a warm summer rain and gentle days filled with laughter.

"I am glad you came to see me," he murmured softly. "Are you permitted to share your mission?"

"I am meant to find the vessel of the Morningstar."

"That is a worthy mission. Do you know where you will search?"

Samandriel shook his head. His ears, long and tapered like a rabbit's, flopped against his shoulders. "I will start where we have last heard his prayers originate, but then I shall go where my grace leads me."

"Then I wish you luck, little brother. May your mission be a success."

Much to Samandriel's surprise, it was.

* * *

Samandriel did start his investigation where Sam's last prayers had been heard from. He had not been privy to the prayers himself, having not been one of the numerous angels to whom the prayer was directed, but Heaven had been in an uproar due to the reactions of those that had. Some of the angels, like Zachariah, had locked themselves away. Others had shared what bits they had learned.

Rumor had it that Gabriel himself had been mentioned, though the part of the prayer that discussed him mentioned his death. Considering Gabriel had disappeared during The War that followed Lucifer's Fall, and was presumed to have died either in that altercation or shortly thereafter, the suspicion that the vessel of Lucifer had The Sight was high in the thoughts of many an angel.

Samandriel did not know what to think. The younger angels, and those lower-ranking, of which Samandriel was both, were not told much about the plans of Heaven. Everyone knew that the vessels of the Apocalypse had been born and that the plans had been left by their Father, but the details were dealt with by the remaining archangels. Orders were passed out and Samandriel had just happened to be one of the angels chosen for a mission. It did not make him anything special. None of the messengers were special anymore.

Samandriel had never stood in a garrison. The soldiers were the angels led by Michael, The Commander, who burned with grace like flames. Samandriel's grace was like a soft breeze, barely enough to shake a tree branch, carrying with it the smell of autumn and a world drowsy after the long spring and summer. Like all of the angels whose grace was painted with Air, Samandriel was a messenger of Heaven, meant to follow the orders of The Messenger.

But with Gabriel dead for eons, the purpose of his rank had been lost. Heaven had no need of messengers and like his brethren, Samandriel was nothing but another body for random tasks, to be used when needed and forgotten whenever else.

It was much the same and yet worse, he knew, for Castiel, who was the only angel who remained in Heaven with a grace likened to Water, the element of Lucifer.

He often wondered why it was that the other angels bearing grace like Water had Fallen with Lucifer, yet only Castiel remained. There were some angels who claimed Castiel was a spy and should be cast out of Heaven, but enough people had argued against this belief to put it down. Still, it confused and concerned Samandriel. Being like Lucifer in grace did not automatically make Castiel bad. Castiel was clearly able to make his own choices and _had_ , which was obviously why he had not Fallen with their lost brothers. But why was he the only one that had disagreed with Lucifer out of all the angels who were created to follow him? Why was Castiel alone?

"He's not alone. He has me," Samandriel told himself, as he winged his way across the earth, following a strange sensation in the air that he couldn't quite place. It was familiar but elusive, like a song he remembered the tune of but not the words. He had caught a scent of it with his grace at the park where the vessel of Lucifer had prayed from. It was like the smell of a flower exhaling oxygen, or a tree just after it rained, and there was a sweet undertone to it, like sugar and sunshine and laughter.

It almost made Samandriel giddy to smell it. He did not know if it would lead him to Lucifer's vessel, but his curiosity had grasped him tightly and there were others searching on Earth, as well. He could take a small detour. Naomi would never know.

And Samandriel needed to know what that strange, familiar smell was that made him think, ridiculously, of giant cats and laughter. And home.

* * *

Humans were strange, Samandriel had decided, but clever. The four elements that made up the basis of their world were too much for their vulnerable forms, so they built homes to protect themselves. This was not Samandriel's first time on Earth, of course. He had come down numerous times, but this was his first time on Earth since the turning of The Fifth Day.

Once, in its very early days, Gabriel had led a group of them to Earth and showed them how to take a vessel.

There were no humans at that time, of course. Plants and animals roamed the world alone. Gabriel had brought Samandriel and a number of messengers down, as well as a reluctant Castiel, and explained to them how they could tuck their grace around the soul of another creature. He then proceeded to demonstrate by slipping his impressively-large vessel inside the small body of a reptilian creature that would later be named a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

"Look! I have a big head and little arms!" Gabriel exclaimed excitedly, waving the dinosaur's stubby arms around.

The crowd of younger angels burst into giggles and excitedly dashed off, ready to try and take their first vessel. It became a contest, Gabriel declaring that the angel who chose the best vessel and showed the most skill would win. Gabriel, of course, was excluded both for his obvious talent and because he needed to be the judge.

He watched with a proud smile as the messengers who followed him laughed and teased each other as they flew around, investigating the various animals that lived in this strange new world their Father had created.

Samandriel had wandered for a while, simply enjoying seeing his Father's creations, admiring the tenacity of trees that had grown so large and the variety of animals in the world. There were so many! And all of them were different, with different strengths. Some burrowed underground, while others swam (and breathed!) in the ocean. Some even flew like he did, though their wings were vastly different. He was amazed and filled with wonder, trying to imagine how he could possibly decide what he wanted his very first vessel to be. It seemed an important occasion and he didn't want to waste the memory. He needed to choose carefully.

And then he saw him.

All of the angels looked different. They were cosmic entities formed of celestial wavelengths, made of light and thought and feeling, and they each manifested their forms differently. Their consciousness had a part to play, as well as their personality. What they were, who they were, was not hidden. There was no shame in being who you were, for each of them had been crafted by the hands of their Father, created with purpose and love, and to feel shame for who they were was to reject the hands of their Father.

Things had changed since The War, but Samandriel still remembered being young, in the time before Lucifer's Fall, when Heaven was a home and love was not a commodity sacrificed for duty, but the duty itself, and one gladly done.

The true forms of his siblings were all of varying sizes. The archangels tended to be larger than all of them, but this was not always true. Orphiel and Zaphkiel, two other messengers, were both larger than Gabriel, their wings stretching for miles in both directions, Orphiel's many eyes gleamed a rainbow of colors, while Zaphkiel's two faces, one a fox and the other an owl, laughed with glee.

Samandriel, in contrast, was the smallest of all the angels. His form was tiny, barely four feet in height, and soft. As wavelengths of light and intent, angels did not have fur, but that did not stop Samandriel's form from giving of the appearance of smooth, thick hair that flowed like a jetstream, rippling silver and white. His legs were long and his hands small, for the purpose of a messenger was better fulfilled with speed than the ability to hold a sword. His wings were long and narrow, dark silver and smooth - the wings of an albatross, he would later discover. His face was human-like in shape, even before humans had been born, with two mouths that sat beneath a long nose, and eyes that circled his head like a crown. He had six ears, all of them long and tapered, like a rabbit's, though he often forgot to keep them extended and they flopped noisily around his shoulders, tickling his wings.

He slipped his small form into the body of the reptile he had found, and was immediately overtaken by the creature's senses. Angels could hear, of course, for what good was a message if it could not be received? But as he slipped his grace into the body of the creature he had chosen for his first vessel, he realized that he had only be taking in the sounds on the plane where he and his siblings dwelled. He had not been listening to the _world_.

The sheer noise was overwhelming on its own. Every movement had a sound, from the rustling of gigantic, leathery leaves to the stomp of a great leg upon the ground. Even the breath of the creature, inhaled deep into massive lungs, made a whispering sound as it entered and exited. And when Samandriel, unable to contain his excitement, laughed, it burst out of the body of the creature in a loud groaning roar that sent small creatures skittering away in all directions.

And the smells! The air was thick with moisture, heavy with the scent of vegetation. There was rumbling grumble - a sound and sensation both! - that came from his vessel's organs, and the pang of emptiness and a feeling of _want_ that were both foreign and frightening. He inhaled a breath and the smell of vegetation came again, eliciting another rumble.

What was this strange feeling? Why was his vessel's organs churning? Was it defective?

He stretched the long neck of his vessel around. It took a while. The creature he inhabited was massive, its body taller than some of the trees Samandriel could sense had been alive for centuries. Its movements were slow, but Samandriel eventually dragged its head around to peer at the midsection where the problem seemed to be originating. He did not see a wound on the beast's body, but he searched with his grace nonetheless. Did he need to heal his new vessel? Would that make it feel better and stop grumbling?

He should go ask Gabriel! Gabriel would know if his vessel needed healing. He pulled his grace away from the beast's mind, lifting his wings to fly off, but somewhere his grace faltered against his commands, the creature's mind clinging to his grace, pinning his wings, and Samandriel realized he was trapped.

He strained against the hold the creature had on him but couldn't get loose. He cried out in fear. Would he be stuck in this form forever? He liked it but he wanted his form and his _wings_. He didn't want to be big and slow for the rest of time!

 _"Gabriel! Brother, help!"_ he cried in his mind, sending his thoughts outward to the archangel. Terror made the thundering heart of his vessel tremble like a drum within him and the sensation was frightening. Was the beast aware of the beat of its heart at every moment? Did it understand its own mortality, know that it was finite and would one day die? What happened if Samandriel was inside it when that happened? Would he die, too? Angels couldn't die!

The creature's voice burst in a deep wail that quivered up the long throat. Saliva foamed at the mouth of the beast and he could feel panic stealing its mind, trying to drag his grace down into illogical madness and beastial instinct. He fought it but his inability to escape only made the panic worse and the beast swung around, ignoring his input, sending a tree crashing to the ground with a shudder and Samandriel's - the beast's - tail burned with pain.

A loud buzzing thrummed heavy in the air, burning against his ears. Samandriel whipped the beast's head around even as his angelic senses sought to identify the sound, automatically slowing it down in his mind, until he was hearing each individual beat of the translucent, membranous wings. He blinked in surprise at the dull yellow and dark black of the striped body that came into his view, superimposed over the silver-blue of grace.

Sticky legs, six of them, touched down on the end of his nose and Samandriel blinked, the panic receding at this strange choice. The creature was tiny. The reptile Samandriel had chosen for his vessel, what would one day be named a sauroposeidon by humans scientists, could have swallowed the tiny insect whole. The angel housed in the creature - Castiel, he recognized, as the smell of warm summer rain blended with the humidity of the rainforest - had landed it on his nose with no concern, however, the strange wings stilling.

 _"C-Castiel?"_ Samandriel asked, shivering.

" _Hello, little brother. You seem distressed."_

 _"I'm stuck!"_

 _"Are you stuck? Or are you lost inside your vessel? It is quite large, Samandriel."_

Despite his fear, Samandriel could not help giggling at the image Castiel conjured between their minds, his tiny form an even tinier ball of vermillion light, traveling the length of the sauropod's form in search of an exit, and getting stuck in its leg.

 _"I'm bigger than you,"_ he said, voice trembling. Was he stuck in the creature's leg? Would he be trapped here forever?

 _"Watch, little brother. Forgive me… you are still big for now."_

 _"Castiel…"_ he whined, and laughed. He watched in amazement as Castiel's form condensed, his grace shrinking into a tiny ball, and then seeming to spring out of the insect's body like a cloud of thick vapor. Immediately, the twisting ribbon of light expanded and Castiel's true form rose above even the massive dinosaur, stretching up and up.

Light blue wings running with rainwater unfolded and curled around Samandriel's form, their thick feathers singing with the sound of a summer shower. He noted idly the sensation of the small insect leaving its perch upon his nose, the sound of its wings as it made its way toward another part of the forest, to continue to life of an ordinary insect.

 _"There. That is much better. You are small again, Samandriel."_ The human mouth of Castiel's true form turned up in a smile and laughter huffed out from between the lips of his lionine face. _"Though I believe you are still larger than Gabriel. You must be sure to tell him so."_ The tips of Castiel's wings brushed against Samandriel's. _"Now it is your turn to leave your vessel."_

 _"What if I can't get out?"_

 _"Then I shall resign myself to a brother who is a reptile."_ Samandriel sobbed. _"Be still, Samandriel. I meant only jest. If you cannot get out, then I shall help you. But first, try."_

He did try. And he did get out. They stood together and watched as the sauropod, now free of Samandriel's control, ripped the leaves off a nearby tree and began to consume them.

"It is absorbing that plant, brother," Samandriel said, watching as the large leaf disappeared into the creature's mouth.

"It is eating. These creatures gain nutrients by consuming vegetation and other creatures, turning that into energy. They do not sustain themselves on grace as we do. They only survive because there are other species in this world that they feed on."

Samandriel eyed his older brother curiously. "This is not your first time visiting this world, is it?"

"Gabriel seems to find great joy in dragging me to this tiny planet and introducing me to its denizens. This is only my most recent excursion here. I suspect it will not be my last." His wings extended. "Come. Let us find the others before they become concerned."

When they reached Gabriel, he had left his vessel and was entertaining the other angels with a tale about a tiny mammal that he promised would one day confuse mankind tremendously.

"Humans will separate animals and plants into categories. Mammals have fur and birth their nestlings live. Birds and reptiles lay eggs. Placing these species in categories will be very important to them, so when Father gave us archangels the chance to create a creature each, I had a fantastic idea." He grinned wildly and Castiel groaned, covering his eyes with a hand. "I created this little creature that had a bill like a bird, and webbed feet, and fur like an otter. And then I made it lay eggs instead of birthing its children live. And to top it off, I made it smell weird!" He burst into laughter. "They'll be scratching their heads for _decades_! And don't get me started on the coconuts!"

The other angels burst into giggles, even though Samandriel was sure they must all be exactly as confused as he was. The archangels had a larger perspective than the younger angels. They were able to see through time, to see some things as they _would_ be, so whatever an otter was and a coconut surely made sense to Gabriel, just as he would understand what humans looked like and did, but Samandriel could only smile and laugh in confusion.

Gabriel snorted. "Oh, nevermind. I'll remind you of this moment in a couple millennia. _Then_ you can laugh like you mean it." He crossed his arms and pretended to huff in exasperation. "Bunch o' nestlings, the lot of you."

"We are not!" one of Samandriel's nestmates cried out in indignation. "I've fully fledged!" There were choruses of agreement, but Gabriel only huffed and shook his head.

"Brother, you are presently outnumbered," Castiel said with a smile.

"What, Castiel? Am I supposed to feel threatened by this group, fresh from their grace-birthing and still squalling?"

Samandriel clapped his hands over his mouths but it did nothing to contain his giggles. Gabriel side-eyed him with a teasing glare. "What are you laughing at, short stuff?"

"I was bigger than you!" Samandriel cried. His wings spread open and he let out a loud laugh as he cried, "Messengers attack!"

Gabriel went down laughing beneath a pile of angels, their grace reaching everywhere it could, trying to tickle him. Castiel didn't join them but stood back, calling out suggestions of where Gabriel was most ticklish, to Gabriel's shrieks of mock-outrage. The prehistoric rainforest was filled with the sounds of childish laughter, and it lingered for years, long after they were gone, a memory even the world of the humans refused to forget.

Samandriel kept that memory tucked close to him, hidden deep inside his grace where nothing could touch it. He had few memories of the time before The War. Most of the angels, it seemed, had forgotten what life used to be like except for brief moments. No one knew why and no one talked about it, so Samandriel didn't dare mention it. All he could do was hold tight to it and keep it in his grace, letting it play out in his mind in the moments when he was alone.

He wondered, sometimes, why the angels did not all share the memories between them. Surely, if they did, they could paint a picture of their past _together_ . But no one ever discussed it, so he did not know what things someone else remembered, perhaps even about _him_ , that he had forgotten, or what things he knew that had been forgotten by others.

Did Castiel remember, he wondered, that that was the day he was named Angel of Thursday? That Gabriel had declared him the winner of their contest because he had taken a dorudon as a vessel and, as Gabriel had said, "went and did the best backflip ever, little bro!" Gabriel had said that it was Castiel's Day, and then he had stared for a while, in that way that the archangels had, as though he were looking at something far, far away.

"This will be called The Fifth Day by the humans," he told them all, and though there was a smile on his face, his eyes were serious and shrouded with a knowledge older than all of them combined. "This will be your day." He stared at Castiel with ancient golden eyes. "Castiel, the Angel of Thursday."

The laughter had come back, then. The seriousness cast aside in favor of amusement and Gabriel's teasing, but Samandriel remembered the way Gabriel had glanced his way, as though checking on him for injury, and the look of pride he had worn when he glanced at a distracted Castiel.

Samandriel was never sure, but he thought that Gabriel had heard his cry when he was trapped in the sauroposeidon's body, and waited, letting Castiel take the lead. Letting Castiel come to his rescue. Because, he remembered, the way the other messengers reacted to the angel changed after that. He was still an outcast among the healers and the soldiers, who looked at him like they were waiting for him to show his true colors and attack, but among the messengers, Castiel had found a place where he belonged.

Even now, years after The War and with Gabriel lost and Heaven broken, the messengers still held together. They did not have a purpose other than fodder for whatever The Commander or The Healer required, but they had not abandoned each other. They stood together, a family despite everything, and Castiel, Samandriel knew, was one of their fold.

He didn't know if his brother knew that, though, if he remembered it.

 _I'll tell him when I get back,_ Samandriel thought, as he swooped low over the dried, brown landscape of a place in the southern reaches of North America, following the strange smell that so enticed his grace. If he did not remember, then Samandriel would be only too happy to remind his brother that he belonged with them, and that he was loved.

 _As soon as I get back._


	14. Of Music & Memories 2

Because I suspect the question may come up, and it's pertinent: yes, Matthew Pike _is_ Alfie, the version of Samandriel we would see in canon in a few years.

Thanks for reading.

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 ** **OF MUSIC & MEMORIES ****

****Chapter Two****

* * *

They called this town Oasis Plains, but Samandriel didn't understand why it had a name when there was nothing here. Didn't most towns have the homes that humans had built to protect themselves from the elements, or even larger buildings - the great huge reflective ones that were taller than some of his brothers? No, those went by a different name. Those were… cities.

But they still had more than this place - a grassy field with some strange metal contraptions sitting around. They had seats inside them, but they looked neither comfortable nor good for protection against the harsh wind or heat of this place.

He was confused, but that could be rectified. Samandriel had taken other vessels since his first. All of them animals, but he had learned to pick up knowledge from the mind of the creature, and humans could hardly be _too_ different, except for that one small detail.

To take a human as a vessel, he needed permission.

He wasn't entirely sure how he was supposed to _get_ permission. He certainly couldn't show himself to a human. Naomi, who had informed a group of them about their assigned mission (passed to her by The Commander who, of course, was far too busy to waste time on a bunch of messengers), had given them some quick rules about going to Earth. Some of them were things he'd heard from her before - don't get comfortable, don't go native, don't mate with a human (why she bothered to mention that, Samandriel didn't know - all angels knew Nephilim were forbidden), and don't show your true form or speak your true voice to a human unless you wanted their eyes to burn out and their heads to explode.

Samandriel shook himself, trying to shake the image away from his mind, but of course it had been burned there. He sighed, his grace letting the breath burst out of him in an unseasonal scent of autumn leaves. Sometimes his imagination was terrible, but that wasn't something discussed with other angels. Thinking of things that weren't real was frowned upon in Heaven. Such things had been unofficially prohibited since the last animal was created on Earth, it's form designed by Lucifer. When he had fallen, none of the archangels had dared to raise their hands to create anything new. It was like Heaven itself had fallen with the Morningstar, and remained in mourning ever since.

It made him sad. He remembered how the messengers had followed Gabriel around as the youngest archangel created animals, laughing as they tossed out suggestions. Michael had been the one to create the western dragons, great fire-breathing quadrupeds with massive wings of leathery membrane rather than feathers. In response, Gabriel had created the bat, a tiny rodent with dragon-like wings, and laughed gleefully at the suggestions to make it eat fruit and bugs, or give it sonar abilities and make it active at night. Like dragons, they lived in caves and dark places, but they were tiny and adorable and oh, Michael had flushed with embarrassment, even his wings turning the color of apples. That, Samandriel remembered, was when the contest for animal creation had begun, and resulted in a number of very odd undersea creatures and the entire continent of Australia.

But that had stopped long ago. There hadn't been any new creatures crafted by the hands of an archangel in eons, and Samandriel suspected there never would be another. His memories of the laughter of Heaven and of his brother's' playful competitions were just that - memories.

Sometimes, it hurt almost too much to remember. Sometimes he wished he didn't.

It was only his close proximity that let him hear the prayer. It wasn't meant for him and so the words didn't reach him, but Samandriel recognize the music of a prayer being spoken, less like speech than a song hummed by a chorus. Surprised, for he hadn't heard a prayer in centuries, Samandriel angled his grace downward and flattened his wings, letting the air rush around them and accepting the gravity of this planet, letting it grasp him where it hadn't touched before.

He ignored the physicality of brick and stone and plaster, catching the wind beneath his wings as he leveled out and swooped into the large stone building, gliding with ease through a glass window depicting a human with large white wings. Was that supposed to be an angel? It looked nothing like them.

There were long benches facing a podium, but only a few people scattered here and there. The air was filled with the strangest sensation Samandriel had ever felt. It tingles along his grace, whispered against his ears - wishes and hopes and wants and fears and _belief_. Belief, so strong he thought he might have been able to take his true form here and harm no one, could have spoken his true voice and been heard, but of course he did not dare risk it.

He folded his long legs so he sat in an approximation of the angle of the benches, though of course he was not truly on the same plane. A few of his ears lifted, listening to softly murmured words. Sounds of grief, whispers of hope, prayers spoken in a human tongue that he could hear, directed to a Father that had left a long time ago.

Samandriel felt grief touch him and his ears flopped back down against his neck. Father had left Heaven after Lucifer had Fallen and he hadn't been back since. No one talked about it but it was always there, an unspoken knowledge. The favored son had been cast down and none of them were worth remaining for.

Perhaps his Father had gone to another world and made new children. Children who wouldn't disappoint him and who he could love without needing to run away to escape their faults. Samandriel wanted to not care. Or, barring that, he wanted to wish his Father happiness, but all he could think of was that the only time he had looked upon the one who created him was the moment he first opened his eyes, lying in the still-glowing hands that had formed him. The rest of the time… none of the lesser angels had been worth their Father's notice. They were not important enough.

So why would this human be?

Something inside him hurt at the thought and he frowned, his wings quivering. It was a feeling not unlike the hungry sensation of an empty stomach - a churning need and want and pain, but his true form had no stomach, nor a need to eat, so of course this could not be hunger.

"What's that?" a small voice asked, and Samandriel looked up to see a pair of eyes staring back at him.

"I don't see anything. Matt, come on, we need to go." An older man said. Samandriel studied him. He looked similar to the boy, though the child had some differing facial features. Perhaps he appeared more like his mother. "I don't know why you wanted to come here, anyway." There was a pause and a sigh. "Tell me you weren't looking for spiders in a church."

"I wasn't looking for spiders in a church," The younger boy parroted, and then smirked at his father's groan. "I just wanted to look. I wasn't going to do anything."

"It's a place of worship, Matthew. Not a playground." A hand on the child's back ushered him forward, though his walk was reluctant as they left the building. "I wish you'd get over this obsession with insects. It's not healthy."

The boy didn't answer his father. As they passed by where Samandriel rested, a pair of dark brown eyes turned to look at him, and Samandriel felt the touch of Sight burn across his skin like sunshine. His wings flared open in surprise. The boy could see him.

 _What are you?_ he heard against his grace, similar to a prayer and yet different.

His ears came up, riveted on the boy's strange mental voice, as he spoke back quietly, brushing against the boy's mind without thinking about it, instinct carrying his words in a way that would not harm.

 **_"I am the angel Samandriel. Will you help me?"_**

* * *

Taking a human as a vessel was beyond anything Samandriel had expected. It was far different from taking an animal vessel. For one thing, the mind of an animal was general rather simple.

That could not be said even in jest of Matthew Pike.

The boy's mind never stopped. Animals didn't have _thoughts_. They lived on instinct and learned knowledge that manifested more as feelings. Hunger was a feeling, which caused them to use their learned knowledge to fulfill the instinct of eating. The same with thirst or the need to nurse young. Their wants were linked to requirements for their survival. Everything was cause and effect by the need to continue the existence of themselves and their species.

Humans were _weird_.

For one thing, some of their wants had absolutely _nothing_ to do with their continued survival. In fact, they were directly opposing the potential for their continued existence. Yes, the hunger was still there, as well as the instinct to fulfill that hunger, though it was quieter, more subtle, overrun by the noise of constant thoughts and wants and fears and wishes and dreams. It was inescapable, maddening, and so, so familiar.

When Matthew had given him permission to use him as a vessel, Samandriel had expected the thrum of various needs and instincts in the back of his mind, physiological aches and burns to tell him things, nothing altogether different from an animal.

But then he was inside Matthew, his grace wrapped around the boy's bright soul, and his thoughts were searing their way into his own mind, terrible and merciless.

Thoughts about being in a new town, so far away from the only home he had ever known. The grief of leaving behind friends he didn't remember a life without, the loneliness of not knowing anyone. The fear of going to a school where he was the new kid, unknown and prime for attack, with no one to talk to or spend time with or to stand with him against the inevitable string of bullies who would turn their predatory focus on the fresh meat. The fears that it would never change, that he would always be the odd one out, either for being the new kid or for his dreams, so huge dreams. Thoughts like stories that unfolded in Samandriel's mind, where a young boy wore a white lab coat and fed crickets to a glass aquarium filled to the brim with spiders. Where plaques covered the wall, emblazoned with words Samandriel could not read, but glowing with the dream-logic-feeling of success and amazement and wonder. Dreams of a boy looked up to for his fascination with and knowledge of insects. And yet underneath every glow of wish-dream-want, there lurked a thought, like a seal under thin ice following a herd of penguins - my father is ashamed of me. My father is disappointed in me. My father doesn't want me, wishes he had a different son, a better son, and not-weird-not-broken-not-strange son.

Matthew had stumbled but caught himself, as Samandriel's grace ripped away from the thoughts, from his mind, curling right and small within an already small body, crying out in anguished grief at feelings and fears that were too familiar, put into terrible words in the mind of a child.

He vaguely heard Matthew's father (Larry, the boy's mind supplied) ask him if he was okay, but he couldn't bring himself to come out yet. Not yet, when he knew he couldn't control himself and did not know how he was supposed to pretend to be a boy he didn't know. So he kept himself tucked away, curled into a ball around the child's soul, until Matthew and his father had returned to their house and the boy had retreated to his nest.

"Are you okay?" He felt and heard the mumble of Matthew's voice. "Samandriel?"

Oh. Samandriel uncurled himself from his right ball, tentatively reaching out to touch the boy's mind. Worry blurred yellow across his grace, writhing like worms in putrid mud, and Samandriel brushed a wing against the shining soul, soothing the concern instinctively. He felt Matthew's sigh of relief like a cool breeze. Funny. It almost felt like his grace.

 _"I am unhurt."_

"You were crying," he said, and his voice trembled slightly. Not concern this time. Remorse and loss.

 _"I have never taken a human vessel before,"_ Samandriel admitted, slightly chagrined. _"I was unprepared for the vastness of your mind."_

"But you're an angel. Your mind must be huge."

 _"It's not the same."_ He tried to think of how to explain it. _The mind of an animal is like a single drop of water fallen from a cloud. It exists only in the place where it is, focused on its present. Sometimes it's catches grains of dirt - knowledge obtained from past encounters - that it carries along with it, but it is never more than a single drop of water. It has no care of where it came from or where it is going to. It simply is."_ For a moment, he let himself focus on the breath entering and leaving Matthew's lungs. Like the sauroposeidon from so long ago, every breath made a whispering sound and both it and the repetitive act were soothing. _"Humans by contrast… you are an ocean. The tide goes in and out in constant motion, touching a thousand shores in a moment, grabbing grains of sand from a million past deeds and carrying them along. Your minds are made of as much of your past as your present, and yet you reach also for the future. You are everywhere, and yet also within yourself, so vast that sometimes you touch nothing of the world and are a world alone. It is…_ " Exhausting. Amazing. Wonderful. Terrifying. Beyond anything he had expected from a creature he had heard often called mud-monkies. This human, whose mind was so like his. _Breathtaking."_

Matthew face warmed with startling heat and Samandriel's wings rose in agitation, his grace reaching out to heal a wound or still a fever. Instead, embarrassment and pleasure and uncertainty met his grace and he searched the emotions for the source of this strange physiological response.

"Matthew, what is a _blush_?"

Matthew's resulting laughter was loud enough to summon his dad.

* * *

It was only after Matthew's embarrassment faded that the excitement flushed through them. "You said… animals. You possessed them?"

Possessed was a word always associated with demons and Samandriel winced to hear it. _"I have taken numerous animals as vessels in my past visits to Earth."_ he admitted.

"Like what?"

 _"My first was a sauroposeidon. He was the largest animal I had ever taken as a vessel."_

"A saur—A DINOSAUR?"

"Alfie?" a female voice called from another room. "Who are you talking to?"

"Myself!"

A soft laugh and then, "Okay, sweetheart."

Matthew look a deep breath and let it out. He was jittery and couldn't seem to stand still.

Samandriel was a little confused. _"Alfie?"_

"It's a nickname my parents use sometimes. Mostly my mom. Unless I'm in trouble. Then it's _Matthew Alfred Pike_! _"_ He snickered a little.

 _"A nickname. So it is a shortened version of your second name?"_

"My middle name, yeah, but sometimes nicknames are random, too. Like my friend from back home. Her name was Cassidy but everyone called her Beetle. I don't even know why."

The name Cassidy sounded so similar to Castiel that for a moment, he was lost in the thought of what his brother would be doing at that moment. It also reminded him of another rumor that had been circulating Heaven, that the vessel of Lucifer has mentioned an angel, but he had used the name "Cas."

Samandriel hadn't understood why he would only use one syllable that could refer to multiple angels, but this actually explained a lot. _"Are nicknames common for humans?"_

"Yeah, especially ones that shorten a name to just a single sound. Like my friends call me Matt, instead of Matthew. It's quicker." He climbed onto the bed and laid down, staring at the ceiling. It was covered, Samandriel realized, in light-green pieces of plastic in the shape of stars. Not real stars, of course, since they were actually balls of gas, but he recognized the star shape from some Enochian wards his brothers had created. Castiel was particularly talented at creating sigils and wards. He wondered if his brother would know where the humans picked up this shape from.

"Do you like them?" Matthew ( _Matt_ , Samandriel reminded himself) asked quietly. His voice was a little subdued. "My dad thinks they're childish but… I like them. I tried to put them together, to make the constellations, but I'm not very good at it."

 _"Why are they green?"_ Samandriel asked.

Matt laughed and rolled to his feet. He pulled the shades down over his windows, closed the door, and shut off the lights. Then he walked over and climbed on the bed again, rolling onto his back.

Samandriel's wings flared open in surprise and he stared. _"Father… they glow!"_

Matt laughed. "Yeah, they do. Like stars."

Samandriel stared at them, at this wonder, the innovation of these humans, who were so much more than he realized. _""I love them,"_ he whispered.

* * *

Samandriel wasn't sure what to do when Matt fell asleep.

At first he didn't realize what was happening, and he panicked when the boy's heartbeat and breathing both slowed, and his body temperature began to drop. He'd been inside injured animals before, had felt them dying and used his grace to heal them, but they'd always had a wound. His grace scoured Matt's body for a wound but it couldn't find one and he felt his wings shivering in fear. Why was Matt dying? Did Samandriel do something? Was he hurting him? He didn't want to hurt him!

In a panic, he sent out a rush of healing grace to infuse all of Matt's body, hoping to catch whatever injury he couldn't sense and fix it.

Matt's leg twitched and his eyes opened, blinking blearily. Samandriel felt his heartbeat pick up slightly.

"Smandril?" he murmured, his words running together.

 _"Are you okay?"_ Samandriel asked, his grace probing, searching for a recently-healed part of Matt, but there was nothing. What was wrong?

"Sleepin'."

Samandriel grace quieted. This was normal? "What's sleepin?"

Matt opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Samandriel could sense, somehow, that he was doing this in lieu of being able to stare at Samandriel himself. "Sleep's… when you sleep? Rest. So I can be awake."

 _"So you're not… you're not hurt?"_

"No?" he asked, confused. "Everybody sleeps. Don't angels sleep?"

 _"No."_

"Mm… when you sleep, you dream. S'nice."

 _"Dream?"_

"Mmhm," the boy murmured, but Samandriel could feel his consciousness slipping away again. He forced himself not to panic this time, just watched.

Matt's breathing evened out again and his heartbeat slowed, but that was all. Neither stopped. His body temperature lowered but not dangerously. And when his eyes began to move strangely, rolling beneath his eyelids as his mind worked hard, Samandriel reached out and touched his mind.

It wasn't unlike the dreams that had fell upon him when he first entered Matt's body. Standing in the center of a large room with long lines of tables covered in equipment, dressed in a white labcoat that was too big for him, Matt fed his spiders and taught crickets how to sing a song about how they could be heroes, which didn't make any sense to Samandriel, since crickets couldn't sing, or be heroes.

When Matt turned, he saw Samandriel, which surprised him just as much here as it had in the church. "Wanna see my lightning bugs? They can change colors."

* * *

"What's school?"

"Um… calling it Hell probably isn't a good idea, since you're an angel, is it?"

 _"Hell isn't on Earth,"_ Samandriel said. _"It exists on a separate plane, like Heaven. So this school can't be Hell."_ He frowned, searching the connotations of the word. It was becoming clear to him that humans were not very literal. Matt, at least, seemed very prone to colloquialisms, exaggeration, and misnomers. Hell, however, was where humans who sinned too badly to be saved were taken for punishment, and that was concerning. _"Is it a place of torture?"_

"My English class sure is," he muttered, but Samandriel could sense the irritation there, not fear or pain. "It's a place where we kids go to learn."

 _"Oh!"_ Samandriel felt his grace thrum with pleasure. _"Lessons!"_

Matt laughed and it occurred to Samandriel that he could probably feel his pleasure. "You like school, then? Lessons, I mean."

 _"Very much. My older brother, Castiel. He is the one who taught me how to fly."_

"You're… wait. You have brothers? You have other angel brothers. And sisters?"

 _"Lots of both. All angels are siblings."_

The emotion he felt then from Matt didn't feel good. It was a twisting, dark feel that swirled in his chest like a greasy shadow. Samandriel shied away from it, curving his grace so it didn't touch the foul essence, his wings shuddering at his back.

The feeling gave way, then, not quite dissipating, but fading enough that he could sense the wishfulness beneath. He didn't understand until Matt's subdued voice said, "I don't have any siblings."

 _"Did you want some?"_

His shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "I don't know. I mean, my friends complain about their siblings a lot. Their big brothers are jerks or their little sisters are babies, but… they do stuff with them, too. They play games or just talk. They're friends." The wishfulness lingered even as the sadness took hold. Humans felt _so much_! "A brother would have come here with me, when we moved. Instead all my friends are back home and I'm here and I don't know anyone except my parents." He picked up his back-pack and slung it slowly over his shoulder. "I would have liked to have a brother or a sister, I think. Even if they were a jerk or a baby."

Samandriel didn't say anything for a while. He thought through what Matt had said as the boy left his house, climbing inside a great yellow transportation device he called a "bus." Samandriel murmured a quiet thank you as the boy whispered the word. Once he realized Samandriel didn't know what a lot of things were, he had started explaining them, or at least relaying the names. It was interesting and Samandriel took immense joy in learning all of it, but his mind was focused elsewhere at the moment.

They were pulling into the parking lot of a school before Samandriel spoke. Matt was sitting at the back of the bus, so he had to wait until everyone else got off before he could.

 _"Angels don't have physical forms, you know,"_ he began slowly. _"We have a True Form, made of grace, which is like your soul."_ He could sense Matt's attention and curiosity focused on his words, so he continued. _"Your parents, of course, created your physical body with theirs."_

"Ew, Samandriel!" Matt hissed. "That's gross!" A girl a few seats ahead of him turned around and gave him a confused look, but she hadn't actually heard his words, only that he had spoken, and was soon distracted by a friend. "I don't wanna think about my parents… making me."

 _"It's simply nature-"_

"Dude. No. It's _gross_." He shuddered. "Skip that part, okay?"

His revulsion was clear, even if Samandriel didn't really understand it. The creation of a human form that permitted a soul to be placed inside was a wonderful gift. But he accepted that Matt had to interest in discussing that. He could ask why it was _gross_ later.

 _"Your… physical form is human, but souls are… different."_ He decided to explain the lack of permanent link to species later. That wasn't pertinent. _"Your body might have been created by… nature."_

"Gross," Matt whispered.

 _"But your soul was created by my Father, the same as my grace. So… if you think about it… that makes us brothers."_

* * *

Matt's school was amazing! Samandriel was only sad that this was his last day attending until after their Yule celebrations were finished. The teachers, Matt said, had given them quite a bit of homework over the holiday, but the final day of classes before break didn't have a great deal of learning from the majority of the classes. Some of them only had the students sit quietly or read, while others watched a _movie_ , which was a story told on a screen with people acting it out. The one they watched in Math and Study Hall was about a mermaid who fell in love with a human. The colors were vibrant and unrealistic but that was easy to ignore because there was _singing_.

It was nothing like the singing in Heaven, spoken in Enochian and telling old, long-known tales, or whispering songs about learning or healing or lessons that needed remembered. Some of the songs were downright _jaunty_ , done to a tune that was as jumpy as a lemur in a tree. Even after the movie ended, Samandriel found himself humming the songs. He would stop for a while, but then he would become distracted and find himself singing them, his grace humming along, wings twitching to the tune.

He could feel Matt's amusement burning bright in his soul, and in a moment between classes when they were walking through a crowded hall, the boy murmured, "Wait til we get home and I introduce you to my DVD collection."

* * *

Samandriel's favorite class was Science. It was amazing! Humans knew so much! The classroom was filled with pictures of planets named after the Roman gods. Samandriel had met Venus once. He thought her planet was lovely. It was no wonder they had named it after her.

There were also pictures of dinosaurs all along the walls near the ceiling. Samandriel could barely contain himself as Matt scanned the pictures so he could see them. There wasn't a sauroposeidon listed, though the apatosaurus was similar in physical shape, if smaller. The sight of the dorudon and tyrannosaurus rex was wonderful, however, and he gleefully told Matt about the time Castiel and Gabriel had taken each as a vessel.

And when Matt asked him what other animals he had taken as vessels throughout the years, Samandriel happily recalled his visits to Earth, listing them off. There was the fruit bat (Gabriel's creation) and the lemur (Raphael's), the penguin (which led to an explanation of exactly how terrifying leopard seals were), three different species of owls, the mongoose, a chameleon, komodo dragon, and a basilisk lizard (which meant he had to tell Matt about the time a bunch of his brothers had a contest to see who could run on water the furthest).

 _"Castiel won, of course. Gabriel said it was because of his grace. He connects with water creatures."_

"What do you connect with?" Matt asked quietly.

"What was that, Mister Pike?" the teacher asked, and Matt cringed in his seat. His teacher raised an eyebrow. "Share with the class?"

Matt blushed warm and scarlet, but before he could say anything, Samandriel said, _"Oh! Oh! Ask him why you humans haven't explored deeper into the oceans! You've gone into_ space!"

Matt could barely contain his laughter, but he managed to say with a mostly-straight face, "I was wondering why we haven't explored the oceans as much as we have space."

The teacher looked surprised. "An excellent question, Matthew. Much of it has to do with pressure."

* * *

By the time class was over, Samandriel's grace was practically vibrating in excitement, and the students were all very excited, because their teacher had taken the entire class period to explain the various reasons humans couldn't delve too deeply into the oceans, and no homework had been assigned. Matt got a few slaps to the back, which was apparently a physical way for humans to show their gratitude.

 _"What class is next?"_ Samandriel asked excitedly.

"That's it. Science is my last class for the day." He couldn't contain his groan of disappointment, but Matt just laughed. "How about… and my mom's gonna think I'm sick but, when we get home, I'll do my homework, and we can read the chapter in my science book about tornadoes."

 _"I've been inside a tornado before,"_ Samandriel said excitedly. _"I'm an element of Air."_

"Well, maybe you can explain the weather to me, because I think it's just weird. Thunder's not _really_ angels bowling in Heaven, right? Because if it is, I owe my gram an apology."

 _"What's bowling?"_

* * *

 _"What are we watching?"_ Samandriel asked, as Matt placed the thin disk into a slot and let the draw slide closed.

"This is one of my favorite movies," he said, flopping down on the couch and picking up his drink. He called it a Coke. Samandriel liked the taste of it, sweet, and it bubbled hard on Matt's tongue, almost burning. The sensation of swallowing a mouthful of bubbles made Samandriel laugh. "I think you'll like it."

They turned their attention to the television as the movie began, playing in bright colors.

 _Ohana means family. Family means no one gets left behind._

 _Or forgotten._


	15. Of Music & Memories 3

**Warnings: Part of this chapter deals with the unexpected death of a loved one due to illness/disease, and hospitalization.**

Thanks to the amazing Discord Crew with their help with this.

Also, for those who are fans of Harry Potter or Marvel/Avengers, check out my fics _Sense of the Soul_ and _Here, You Are Home_ , both in the Cadbury Universe.

Enjoy the chapter!

* * *

 **OF MUSIC & MEMORIES**

 **Chapter Three**

* * *

 _"Do you assist your father in building homes?"_

He felt Matt's lips turn down and his nose scrunch up as confusion ruffled through him. "What?"

Samandriel thought of the large machine he had seen during his flight, one that he later saw being controlled by a man, used to dig through the ground and move the earth. _"Your father is the commander of your home builders, isn't he? Do you assist him?"_

"Oh, the construction company. No, my dad's not a commander. He's just the boss. He tells people what to do and where to put stuff, I guess."

Samandriel thought that the word "commander" was apt, in that case, but didn't correct Matt. Maybe that wasn't a term used on Earth yet? Or perhaps it was one used centuries ago. Language changed rather quickly, according to some of his brothers and sisters who made frequent trips to Earth.

"I'm too young to have a job, anyway. I'm only twelve."

Twelve seemed rather old for a human, to be honest. Didn't they only live to be forty? Why were they still being swaddled after a quarter of their lifespan had past?

"I'll be in school 'til I'm eighteen, and if I go to college, then I might be thirty before I get out."

Thirty?! _"What will you do then?"_

"Well, I want to be an Entomologist and study insects, but I'll have to work for someone else for a while before I can go off on my own. I'd like to go to the Amazon Rainforest, though, and look for new species of insects! Or spiders. There was a movie once about this new spider they found in the Amazon. It was really venomous, and it bred with a spider from the US and created this whole new species. I got in trouble for watching it, but I think Mom was only mad because she's terrified of spiders. I think they're cool."

Samandriel was very confused, but he didn't want to ask Matt how long he was likely to live. It seemed a terrible topic to bring up with a creature that was possibly still considered an infant in their own species, even if Samandriel knew that Matt's bright soul would find a beautiful home in Heaven once he left this realm.

Samandriel hoped he could visit him there, in his Heaven. He liked this boy.

 _"Spiders were one of Raphael's creations,"_ Samandriel told him, thinking of the Healer. _"He has eight arms. Gabriel was teasing him one day, so Raphael created the first spider and dropped it down Gabriel's shirt."_

It wasn't an actual shirt, of course. In their trueforms, the angels did not wear clothing. It was simply the closest approximation Samandriel could make to easily explain Raphael sticking the spider beneath the outer layer of Gabriel's grace so its legs would wriggle around against his wings. Gabriel had shrieked so loudly, he caused the massive volcanic eruption that would come to be known as Krakatoa, after the island on which it occurred a few billion years in the future.

"Your brothers sound awesome."

 _"They are."_ Awesome in all senses of the world, but also terrible. He thought of Lucifer, who had Fallen and taken Heaven with him. Lucifer, who was planning to fight Michael for command over Heaven, in the Final Battle that would determine everything.

And Samandriel was _supposed_ to be finding his true vessel, not playing games with a human.

"Are you okay?" Matt asked, pausing in his walk across the fresh-tilled dirt.

 _"Yes,"_ Samandriel said.

 _Ohana means family._

 _"I'm fine."_

"Okay," Matt said, and began walking again, though Samandriel could feel both his disbelief and concern.

 _"What did you want to do out here?"_ he asked, to try and change the subject.

"Well, there's this spider that local to the area, but it's really venomous…"

* * *

 ** _"This is how I spoke to you that first time."_ **

"It's still weird," Matt said, from where he was crouched next to the rotting porch. "It's like I'm having a conversation with a spider."

 ** _"Spiders do not appear to have very elaborate thoughts. Mostly she is concerned that you are large and near her nest."_** There was a small movement in the shadows beneath the porch. **_"I am coming out now. Do not squish me."_ **

"Of course not."

 ** _"Human instincts might have you reacting without thought. I can feel the toxic nature of her venom. If she were to bite you, you would need immediate assistance."_ **

"But you have control of her, right?" Matt asked nervously, taking a few careful steps backward.

 ** _"Yes. I won't allow her to hurt you as long as I am present. Either in her body or yours."_ **

Matt nodded, relaxing. "I'm not worried, then."

Samandriel found it interesting, being inside the body of an arachnid. It was not a creature he had taken as a vessel previously.

The size, of course, wasn't much of an issue. He had always been small and had a proclivity for taking small creatures as vessels, excepting his very first vessel. So having Matt tower over his form now was not too different from being towered over by his brothers. And he was accustomed to multiple eyes, since he had ten in his true form that circled his head like a crown. It was the legs that were the truly strange thing, all of them moving independently, unlike the gait of a horse or a dog. It took a moment before he felt completely comfortable in walking, even though he doubted he would fall over with so many legs on which to balance himself.

He could also feel the web sack within the spider's body and knew instinctively how to spin the silk to craft a web. It was curious how different animals were to humans. Their thoughts were less intrusive and shallower, based on instinct rather than a need to _understand_ , and Samandriel had full control over their bodies, rather than being a presence in the back of their mind, like he was with Matt.

He moved out from beneath the porch with careful steps, feeling the spider's fear and disgust within him. She didn't like the bright light of the sun in her sensitive eyes and the area was too open, especially with Matt so close. He carefully guided his grace over to shield the spider's eyes and ease the fear. Matt wouldn't hurt either him or the spider, so there was no need for concern, and he had checked that this spider had no yet lain any eggs. They were not stealing a mother away from her unhatched children.

He watched as Matt moved closely, lowered his hand to the ground. Samandriel moved forward onto the proffered palm and held still as Matt lifted his hand into the air and then stood. Even if he did fall off the boy's hand, his grace would protect both him and the spider. He needn't be concerned.

"Wow," Matt whispered. He pulled a plastic box out of the bag he had carried with him, then hesitated. "If I put her in the box, can you still get out?"

Samandriel felt a rush of warmth knowing that Matt cared enough to ask. **_"Yes."_ **

Matt nodded, opening the box with one hand and then holding his hand inside it so Samandriel could crawl off. He felt the box jostle slightly around him and the lid snapped shut over it.

"Can she breathe okay?" Matt asked, holding the box up so he could peer in through the clear plastic.

Samandriel took a few testing breaths, then stretched his grace out, testing the edges of the box to make sure they were sealed but not air tight. He could feel oxygen moving easily through the box, unhindered, though the lid was securely latched. He could keep an eye on the spider, but Matt would be safe from it. Even if it did manage to bite him, which Samandriel had no intention of allowing, he would heal the wound and erase any venom from the boy's body. He had no plans to let the child be hurt.

 ** _"Yes, though she is hungry,"_** he noted, feeling that empty, clawing feeling that had become so familiar when he stayed in a vessel for too long.

"I have some flies and crickets at home. I bet she'll love them."

 ** _"Hakuna Matata,"_** Samandriel sang to the tune of the song he had learned from _The Lion King._

"It means no worries, for the rest of your days." Matt could scarcely sing, he was giggling too hard. "Bugs, yuck."

Samandriel continued to hum even as he pulled his grace out of the black widow, soothing her fear as he passed.

 ** _"May I come back in, Matt?"_** he asked, as he stretched his wings, unfolding his body. It was still so strange to be in his true form and have someone staring at him, comprehending his presence.

"Wait," Matt said, stepping closer. His eyes were trailing over Samandriel's form, his lips turning up into a grin.

Samandriel felt a tickle of unease in the place where his stomach would be if he were in a vessel. He knew he was small and his form was soft-looking. He wasn't a warrior like Michael's angels, those born of fire and fit for the battlefield. Most of the other Messengers were larger than him _and_ more fierce, with harder angles and wings made for speed. Samandriel looked like a child's stuffed toy, to be cuddled. Not a creature who could protect or safeguard.

"You look like a rabbit!" Matt said, and his laugh was delighted, not mocking like Samandriel expected, though why he expected mockery he could not say. He didn't remember any of his siblings mocking him for his appearance. He was as he had been made. "I like your ears."

Samandriel's ears lifted without his consent, the top pair folding back across his head in a bashful attempt to hide. They covered a few of his eyes. **_"You don't think I look silly?"_ **

"You look different," Matt admitted, "but not silly." He studied Samandriel a moment longer, his eyes trailing down the length of a wing. "I think you're amazing."

Samandriel's wings curled forward, hiding his face as embarrassment flooded through him, turning his ears a pale pink.

 ** _"I think you're amazing, too."_ **

* * *

It was strange how _right_ it felt to be back in Matt's body. Vessels never felt wrong. Strange, maybe, or different from what he was used to, but not wrong. But they also never felt like Matt did. Was it a human thing? Was it because of the way their minds worked, so close to the minds of an angel, if less open? Or was it because Matt could see his grace?

Maybe one day he would get the chance to take another human as a vessel and see if there was a difference, but it wasn't important now.

 _"What will you do for the rest of the day since you don't have school?"_

"Well, Dad and Mom will be working and they don't really like me wandering around by myself for too long. I think they're worried I'll find an insect colony and decide to move in."

 _"I don't believe you would fit in an insect colony."_

"You'd be amazed what humans can do when they're determined to make a point." There was a rush of joyful humor, sunshine-bright. "We could watch another movie."

Samandriel's wings thrummed with excitement. _"Another singing movie?"_

"Sure! We haven't watched _Hercules_ , yet."

 _"Hercules? The demi-god?"_

"Demi-god?"

 _"Hercules was born of Zeus and a human woman. That makes him a demi-god."_

"Oh. The movie's not like the myth, then. Still, it's good and I like the music."

Samandriel was excited but also curious. _"Myth?"_

"Well, yeah. We learned about Hercules in school, and Olympus and the Greek myths." He must have felt Samandriel's humor, because he said, "They are a myth, right?"

 _"Hercules was a real man. He died a long time ago, of course, but he was real."_

"And the gods? Zeus?"

 _"Also real,"_ Samandriel said, his wings flaring open in joy at Matt's obvious surprise. _"I've never met Zeus, but I would fly with Helios and Selene sometimes. I think they go by Apollo and Artemis now."_

"I don't know much about Greek mythology except what we learned in my one English class." ****  
****

Samandriel was about to explain that there were a lot of Pagan deities and that some of them traded off duties across pantheons, but he was distracted by a strange smell on the air. He didn't taste it with Matt's taste buds. Rather, his grace felt it coil in his wings, thick and sickly-sweet, carried on a wave of woodsmoke. ****  
****

Distantly, he was aware of Matt asking him what was wrong, but he could smell herbs on a non-existent wind, not here and now but long ago, stretched back across a century or more. _Tobacco,_ some whisper across time supplied, _sage, and a fire to warm us. A fire to light our way, and burn our dead._ ** **  
****

Chanting. Low and heavy, deep but rising, filled the air. A hundred voices, perhaps more, all calling out to Spirits that lingered here in this place. Calling. Calling. ****  
****

Chanting throughout the years. Calls to make the land prosper, calls for health and safety. Praise. Joy. Celebration. ****  
****

Loss. Calls to the Spirits to carry the dead into their fold. ****  
****

Fury. Calls for the strength to fight. War. Bloodshed. ****  
****

A battlefield. ****  
****

A lone voice, a fading voice, calling out a chant that called sickness and darkness and pain, filled the bloodsoaked earth with rage and hate and vengeful fury. He could feel it now, beneath the smoke that filled his wings, soaking the sickly-sweet scent of tobacco into his feathers, there lay a mouth, endlessly deep, eternally hungry. It breathed a smoke of poison into the world and devoured all who dared to set foot here. All who dared to dwell on land that had been stolen, soured with death, and cursed. ****  
****

"Samandriel!" ****  
****

Matt's shout finally broke through and Samandriel came back to himself in time to feel the ground disappear from beneath Matt's feet, pulled away like a tide was tearing the shore away from him, and then they were falling. ****  
****

The smoke was thick in his wings, sticky like tree sap. They flapped uselessly around him, splattering the edges of the tunnel with the scent of burning dead. He could feel Matt's terror tearing through him as the boy's scream ripped through the tender flesh of his throat, the earth rushing past them, sand churning around them. The light disappeared above them as they fell down, down, down into an earthly gullet and were swallowed whole. ****  
****

* * *

Matt slowly opened his eyes, his head throbbing in time with his heartbeat and his throat aching. He snorted sand out of his nose and wiped it from his eyes as he lifted his head and looked around. ****  
****

He was in a cave. There were stalagmites and stalactites dripping water, the sound echoing in the air, almost like music. The clink of a drop into a pool of water was like chimes. Or bells. ****  
****

There was light coming from somewhere. The whole cavern was lit as though the walls were made of sunshine and the roof of the caverns painted with stars. ****  
****

Matt stumbled to his feet, moving unsteadily forward, further into the cave. It was alive with light, almost humming with the bright shine of life, and though he looked, Matt couldn't find a shadow anywhere. Even the pool of water at its center was crystal clear to the floor beneath it, the stone of its basin polished smooth and gleaming. ****  
****

How had he gotten here? Look though he did, he could not find a tunnel or a hole in the cavern roof through which he had fallen. It might have closed up behind him. There _was_ a pile of sand on the floor where he had awoken. He frowned at it. The sand was dark, now that he was looking at it, dark brown and smeared black, as though drenched in oil. He found himself wiping down his arms, desperate to get every grain off his skin. It was dirty. It was wrong. ****  
****

"Samandriel, what's wrong with the sand?" ****  
****

His words echoed back at him in the cavern, but no answer followed. ****  
****

"Samandriel?" ****  
****

He reached for that presence that had been in his mind for the past few days, but the place where the angel normally sat was empty, that second mind gone. Matt felt his throat thicken in worry. Had the angel been hurt? Had the fall… could an angel _die_ ? ****  
****

"Samandriel?!" ****  
****

_iel-iel-iel_ the cavern echoed back at him. ****  
****

He spun, searching the cavern for the angel's familiar lapine form, his large wings or his floppy ears. "SAMANDRIEL!" he shouted, stumbling on a stone and falling backward. He landed heavily in the pool, water sloshing up over his shoulders and soaking his hair. It was warm, not cold like he would have expected, but the comfort of gentle water against his skin did nothing to ease his fear. He felt his eyes fill with tears. He knew Samandriel wouldn't have left him, so _where was he?_ ** **  
****

"Hush, little one. Do not fear." ****  
****

Startled, Matt twisted around. ****  
****

Behind him, standing in the center of the pool, was a woman who hadn't been there a moment ago. She wore black leather armor over clothes of white, and her hair was pulled back from her face, falling in a twisting braid as silver as moonlight. ****  
****

She held something carefully in her arms but she was too tall for Matt to see it, and he was transfixed by her eyes. They coal black but glittered with bright stars, as though each were a galaxy all their own. ****  
****

"Hello, Matthew." Her voice echoed but not like his did, rebounding from the walls of the cave. Her voice echoed in his head, chiming like bells and singing a song that made him think of comets careening through the sky, bright and burning and beautiful. "I am pleased to meet you." ****  
****

"Hello," he said, for want of a better thing to say. He wiped tears from his face and when she offered him a hand, he took it. Her fingers were calloused from hard use but her grip was strong as she pulled him to his feet. ****  
****

"Do not be afraid," she said, and her smile was as kind as her eyes were vast. "No harm will find you here. I will protect you." ****  
****

"Who are you?" He wondered if he was supposed to know already, but he didn't, so he had to ask. She knew his name, after all. ****  
****

"My name is Artemis and I have been waiting for you." ****  
****

Waiting for him? His mind caught on her name, though. "You're Selene. Samandriel's friend." ****  
****

"I am." She crouched down before him, arms still cradling the bundle she held. It was blankets, he could see. The soft fabrics were every shade of blue the sky had ever shown and perhaps some that Matt had never seen before or known existed. "Do you know what it means that I am Selene and Artemis?" ****  
****

Meeting her gaze was like defying gravity - like falling upward into space but also like flying, and it was both terrifying and exhilarating to feel like he might peer into them and never come out. "No," he said. "I remember your name from school. Artemis. But I don't know what it means." ****  
****

Artemis smiled at him, that gentle, pleased smile, as though his ignorance was a joy. Or perhaps it was that he didn't pretend to understand when he didn't. He couldn't learn that way, after all, and there was a lot that he didn't know. There was a lot that he had learned just these past couple days, with Samandriel there to show him how big the world was beyond his perspective. ****  
****

"When I was born, I was tasked with carrying the moon into the sky. My chariot is pulled by two white horses and they held me pull the moon up beyond the horizon and bring the Night. My brother, Helios, or Apollo, carries the Sun in his chariot, and our sister is the bright, vibrant colors of the dawn. ****  
****

"I was not a goddess when I was born. We were the children of Titans, who have been called monsters and trapped beneath the world, or destroyed. Helios and I were allowed to remain, for we did not fight the Olympians or try to take over. We did our duty and so were permitted to continue. And then, unexpectedly, we were offered new names. Artemis and Apollo. And new titles. Goddess and god, with more duties besides. ****  
****

"I am a huntress and remain the Goddess of the Moon. Among other duties, I have been tasked with protecting children, and that is one of the reasons that I am here." ****  
****

"Because I'm a child," Matt said with some irritation. He wasn't a baby. ****  
****

Artemis smiled softly at him, unbothered by his revulsion. She, after all, was millennia old. "Not just you. I am here for Samandriel's sake, as well. He is the youngest of his kind, you know. The very last angel born into the world. He did not learn to see the world the way his elder siblings did and so his interactions are different and unrefined. This is to the benefit of you both, and perhaps well beyond you both." ****  
****

"What do you mean?" Matt asked, his head tilting to the side in an unconscious mimicry of the angel whose mind he had become used to dancing within his own. ****  
****

"Gods and angels and Titans and creatures of the deep, we are ancient and mysterious, but do not let that fool you into believing we are perfect. We are strong and we hide our errors well, but we are no less filled with imperfection and regret as humans. We are simply better able to disguise them from you, because our perspectives are larger than yours and our means outside your reach. For now. It will not always be so. ****  
****

"But do not think angels are beyond error, Matthew. They, too, suffer from the troubles that haunt all families. Siblings, after all, are both a terror and a joy - of that I can attest. Samandriel sees things differently than his siblings and he will not be well received if he is ever to reveal them. And without help, he might defy what he knows to be right and true, in order to not be cast down from the brothers and sisters he so loves." ****  
****

Matt knew what it felt like to fear the rejection of family so deeply you considered giving up who you were. More than once he had considered letting go of his desire to be an entomologist, if only his father would stop looking so disappointed. Either way promises pain and he hadn't truly made his mind up about which direction he would go, but he understood the dilemma. ****  
****

"What can I do?" ****  
****

"The very same thing that you have been. In comparison to you, Samandriel is an ancient creature, but to his kind, he is still a child. He has much knowledge of the world that he could teach you. Almost as much as you could teach him about humanity and what it means to be human." ****  
****

Matt's nose wrinkled up in confusion. "Being human? All we've done is go to school and watch Disney movies." ****  
****

"And search for a spider you have never been able to get a close look at because of the danger. To see the world through eyes that never shy from curiosity. To have dreams you have thought up for yourself and follow them, even when doubt hounds you from those you love. To not let fear stop you, or doubt bind you. To love, despite the pain that comes with it. This is what it means to be human." ****  
****

Matt looked at her for a long moment, at her fathomless gaze and her hair that spun like stars. "How do you know what it means to be human?" He asked quietly. How could she know if angels could not? She was a goddess! ****  
****

"Curiosity is not limited to humans, though it comes most naturally to you. I once spent a lifetime on Earth with only the memories of a single human span in my mind. There was love and loss, joy and pain, and I remember those years well. They have helped to shape me. They have made me understand how to love, how to care, and what it means to be a protector. ****  
****

"Samandriel fears he is the least of all the angels, for he is not a warrior or a healer or a protector. He does not understand that his place in the world has only just opened, that it has never before been filled by an angel. He will be the first and the brightest of his kind." She smiled gently. "If you are willing to help him." ****  
****

"He's my best friend," Matt said honestly, "of course I'll help him." ****  
****

"It will be dangerous. To walk with an angel is to see the world through eyes that stretch further than your own could ever hope to. They are not made to stand on the sidelines and let the world pass them by. You will never be _safe."_ ** **  
****

The idea was frightening. He would never be safe? He was only twelve. How was he supposed to help an _angel_ when he couldn't even protect himself from the bullies at school? ****  
****

She must have recognized the thought on his face, because her one hand reached out and gently traced fingers down his cheek, turning his head so he met her gaze. "The fact that you can see Samandriel outside of a vessel proves that you are stronger than you think. There is more to you than even you can understand yet, and though you may not know now, I promise that the means of protecting Samandriel will come to you when you most require them. But it will not be a pleasant journey for either of you. It would be kinder to separate, for you both to go home and forget about the other. It would hurt less in the end if you turned back to your normal life, became an entomologist, and spent your adulthood studying insects, because if you walk with Samandriel, I cannot promise that you will ever reach adulthood, nor that you will ever touch your dreams." ****  
****

When Matt was seven, his grandmother got sick. ****  
****

She'd been in her mid-fifties at the time but the illness came on swiftly and aged her almost overnight. Samandriel remembered only vague pieces of that time, though the image of her lying in a hospital bed, thin, her skin dry and hanging where it had previously been full and flesh before, stayed with him. She'd been a different person almost - a woman twice her age and half as energetic, and when she'd died, he remembered sitting in his room crying about how unfair the world was that this woman he had lived had been taken away so quickly when she had seemed fine mere days before she passed. ****  
****

He couldn't quite call up that exact feeling anymore. He still missed her. She had thought his fascination with bugs was interesting and kept a insect identification book around the house, so they could determine what new creature he'd found. The grief wasn't raw anymore and the hole wasn't gaping, but he remembered those weeks like pages of a scrapbook decorated with Polaroids. ****  
****

He remembered, a month or four after she had died (time seemed to run together sometimes), they were talking about diseases and vaccinations in school. They learned about Polio and the vaccination that wiped the disease out but how their parents probably still had a scar from the vaccine - his father did, he remembered asking. They learned about how a virus could mutate, and about how bacteria was grown so they could figure out how to kill it. And they learned a little about where vaccines came from. ****  
****

When Matt looked back ten years from now, he would probably recognize how odd it was that the substitute science professor went into detail about insects used in poultices to relieve pain or inflammation. He might even wonder if the man - such a strange man, with his floppy hair and his ridiculous bowtie, and a mildly concerning obsession with a fez that kept being kidnapped by the art teacher - had somehow _known_ that it was this moment that would define Matt's desire to be an entomologist. If the man, Dr. Tyler he'd called himself, had ever realized that learning that insects could be used as cures would make Matt think of his grandmother? ****  
****

Because that was what had come to mind for him. Not that mashing up insects and pressing it to a wound was gross or that maggots were disgusting, but that if someone had thought to look deeper into insects, or had looked for new insects, they might have found the means to save his grandmother. And since he couldn't save his grandmother, for even a miracle cure couldn't bring back the dead, the secret to curing these terrifying diseases that _had_ no cure might still be found in a common ant, or perhaps in a species not yet discovered in the Amazon. ****  
****

Whether or not the substitute teacher with the floppy hair and weird clothing choices had known, his lesson had been the catalyst for Matt's interest in bugs turning into a desire to be an entomologist. More than that, however, it was the first moment when a seven-year-old boy looked at this thing he thought was possible, and then looked at how it might affect not just himself, but the entire world. ****  
****

A younger or less-mature child might have turned away from Artemis, accepted the offer to flee and go back to his simple life, where becoming a big scientist was a safe, if perhaps less-adventurous dream. If he hadn't had a moment in second grade where he thought about how a discovery could affect the entire world for the better, not just now but across time, into the future, as the cure for Polio had meant he never had to bear a scar from the vaccine because they had _stopped_ it, he might have decided that safe was better. He might have thought to take these last few days as a gift, keep the memories as something to think back fondly on, and let Samandriel go find someone else to help him in his terrifying quest into dangers unknown. ****  
****

But… ****  
****

This was bigger than he was. Artemis had all but admitted that. There was more going on here than she was saying, and Samandriel's place would be something completely new. Something newly discovered. Like an entire new species that could affect the whole world, if approached and studied properly. ****  
****

This would be dangerous, sure, but then, life was dangerous. Who was to say that Matt wouldn't become an entomologist, find a new species of spider, and find out it was more venomous than a fennel spider when it bit him? Who was to say he wouldn't be hit by a truck walking home today? Life was dangerous, but living made it worth it. Discovering new things made it worth it. ****  
****

Imagine what he could discover seeing the world through an angel's eyes. Imagine what they could learn together? How much could they change the world? How many people might they help? ****  
****

How many grandmothers could they save? ****  
****

He looked up at Artemis, met her galaxy-strewn eyes, and saw the gentle smile on her face, so like the smile of his grandmother when he would run up to her, a cricket hidden in cupped hands, or a firefly perched on one finger. ****  
****

"I want to help him," he told her, though her smile suggested she had already known his answer, perhaps even before he did. "Even if it's dangerous, I want to be there to protect him. Even though I'm not strong." ****  
****

"You are far stronger than you know." ****  
****

She lowered herself to her knees and held the bundle in her arms out to him. The blankets unraveled, falling into the pool and disappearing into the water as though they had been made from it, and perhaps they had. ****  
****

Samandriel lay curled up in her arms. The angel looked so small with his wings curled around him like a downy blanket, his ears folded back around his head. His eyes were closed as he slept, but Matt knew somehow that he was all right. Artemis had kept him safe, because that was her job - to protect the children. ****  
****

"Are you certain? If you take him back now, I can't guarantee you will be able to change your mind. Something is coming that is still more dangerous than the curse that poisons this land and there may be little time left for you to regret your decisions." ****  
****

"I won't regret it," Matt said, and though his voice shook, he'd never felt more sure of anything in his short life. "He's my friend and I want to help him." ****  
****

"Very well." She held her arms out and Matt carefully took Samandriel from her. The angel seemed smaller than normal, curled up in Matt's arms, but he was as heavy as Matt imagined holding a full-sized mastiff would be. Matt's legs quivered beneath the weight but he stubbornly stayed standing. ****  
****

"Samandriel?" he called, but the angel didn't wake. Matt looked up at Artemis in concern. ****  
****

"Hold him close to you, Matthew. He is a part of you now, as you are a part of him." ****  
****

Matt held the angel close to him and felt a warmth like sunlight in his chest, as though he was being filled with galaxies and his heart was a shooting star. Samandriel's form grew lighter in Matt's arms and then bright - so bright that Matt could barely look at him. He felt the weight leave his arms and then Samandriel's familiar presence filled his mind, settling back into the place that Matt had begun to see as _his_ . ****  
****

He could tell, somehow, that the angel still slumbered, but he knew that all would be well. He would keep Samandriel safe. ****  
****

He turned back to Artemis. She was regarding him with a proud look that made him blush, and she seemed more than pleased. "I think this world will be a better place for having you both in it." She reaches out and cupped his face in her hands, her smile fading. ****  
****

"Listen closely. There is a curse upon the land that you are calling home. It is what brought you low beneath the ground and what attacked Samandriel. Though he will be well, the curse is not gone and must be stopped, or many more will fall to it. In this, you will be of the greatest help, for the curse uses the insects of this land to cause harm, and you know how they should be, and will see how they _are_ ." Her thumbs ran over his cheekbones in a soothing gesture that made him sigh. "Samandriel will sleep for a time yet, but you will not be alone. _He_ will help you now, and again. Do not fear what you See. I cannot fight your battles for you, my little moonbeam, for warriors must stand on their own legs and pull back the bowstrings to grow strong, but I will watch over you as I do all my hunters." She presses a kiss to his forehead and he shut his eyes as her form flowed into silver moonlight. "Trust him, for he has come to help, and he knows more than he says." ****  
****

Matt blinked his eyes open to find the cavern gone. Instead, he was surrounded by walls of rocks and dirt, half buried in the detritus of a sinkhole. The sunlight shone down hot on his back, only to be blotted out a moment later by a shadow. ****  
****

"Shit," he heard above him in a desperate tone, and then a shouted, "Ma- Kid! You okay? Hey, kiddo!" ****  
****

Matt rolled over, peering up at the man. He seemed a giant, too tall to be anyone Matt knew, and his voice was unfamiliar. Against the bright light of the sun behind him, he was nothing but a shadow. ****  
****

_"Trust him."_ ** **  
****

Whether it was truly Artemis speaking or just a whispered thought in his mind, Matt didn't have much choice. The hole he was in was at least fifteen feet deep. How he didn't have any broken bones was beyond him and probably the work of Artemis or what Samandriel could manage before he had been knocked out. ****  
****

Matt tried to talk and choked on sand. He spat the grains out of mouth, grimacing as their crunched between his teeth. "Gross." ****  
****

"Kid!" ****  
****

"I'm okay!" He called up, his voice echoing in the deep hole. "Just… very stuck." ****  
****

There was a relieved chuckle. "I can see that. You all right if I go get a rope?" ****  
****

"Not going anywhere! Promise!" ****  
****

The man laughed, though is sounded off somehow. "Good. I won't be gone long. Don't disappear on me." His shadow moved away but then stepped back against the light. "I'm Sam, by the way. All right?" ****  
****

"I'm Matt. I promise to shake your hand all polite once you get me out of here." ****  
****

"Looking forward to it." He sounded tired. "Be right back." ****  
****

The sunlight was bright and too hot, far more than it had been when he had been walking back home with Samandriel chatting with him about watching Disney movies. There was something wrong with that, though he wasn't sure what. He couldn't really focus on it with his mouth feeling like sandpaper, his throat dry from the grains. He wanted to brush his teeth, and he was terribly thirsty. There was also a headache throbbing behind his eyes and Matt wondered if that was from the fall. ****  
****

He sat back down, leaning his back against the wall of the hole and closing his eyes. The world spun slightly and he ran his tongue around his mouth, spitting more sand. He wondered if he'd swallowed some because his stomach was upset and he thought he might be sick. ****  
****

He tried prodding lightly at Samandriel but the angel was deeply asleep, only the feel of his presence like a weight pressed against him assuring Matt that the angel was still there. No idle dream-thoughts dribbled over and he remembered that angels didn't dream. How boring. Where did they go when they slept, then? Did their minds just disappear, or did they go somewhere else while their body stayed here? Was Samandriel's mind in Heaven, or did it just… turn off, like a light? ****  
****

He'd have to remember to ask. ****  
****

He wasn't sure how much time passed. At one point, he must have fallen asleep, because he jerked awake at the sound of his name being shouted. Blinking against the searing light, he opened his eyes to find he wasn't alone in his hole. The giant man was crouched in front of him, long legs folded ridiculously, like a backwards grasshopper, knees somewhere around his ears. ****  
****

He giggled hard at the image of a human grasshopper, especially when it's tentacles started tickling his neck.

"Matt, look at me," the grasshopper said, and Matt opened his eyes again. Why was he blinking for so long? ****  
****

"Grasshopper man," he murmured, his voice cracking. He was made of sand. He needed a drink of water so he could be a beach. ****  
****

A hand pressed against his forehead, cold against his skin, and the grasshopper said a really bad word that his mom would fan his ass for even thinking. "Badmouth," he grumbled. ****  
****

"Matt, I need you to wrap your arms around my neck and hang on. Can you do that?" ****  
****

Matt blinked at him. Why was he supposed to do something like that? Weren't they going to fly out of the hole? Wasn't that why he had wings. Granted, the grasshopper's wings weren't feathered like Samandriel's. They looked more like puddles where wings should go. Blank spaces waiting to be filled. Maybe blanks couldn't fly. That was sad. Matt was sad. ****  
****

"I want my mom," he said. ****  
****

"I know, kiddo. We're going to go see her, but I need you to hold onto me. Can you do that?" ****  
****

Matt nodded, his head not quite doing the action as fluidly as he'd wanted, and he thought it should worry him that his head wasn't bobbling right. Too much sand in his brain. ****  
****

"I need to be a beach," he told the grasshopper, and his arms were guided around the giant's neck. He felt himself lifted and couldn't help but cry out at the sharp ache of his body. Why did he hurt? Did he fall? Was he squished? ****  
****

His legs were maneuvered to wrap around the grasshopper's waist and he was pretty sure grasshoppers didn't have waists. Maybe this one was actually a locust. He'd never seen a locust before. ****  
****

The grasshopper was talking but he was thinking about making a sandcastle with all the sand under his fingernails. And then he would live in it and make it his big palace. On the beach. And there'd be sharks. ****  
****

"Alfie." ****  
****

He blinked, turning his head to look at the grasshopper. He had hair, which was weird, but then it was all sandy colored so maybe it was just beach. "You're a weird grasshopper." ****  
****

"I'm a new species," the grasshopper told him. Since when did grasshoppers know if they were new or not? Did they get a name tag that said they were a new grasshopper and their name was… was… ****  
****

"Sam."

"That's right, kiddo. We're gonna go see your mom, how's that sound?" ****  
****

"Good. I'm thirsty." ****  
****

"I bet. I need you to hold tight to me, okay? And then we'll go get you a drink and some ice cream. Sound good?" ****  
****

Ice cream sounded amazing. He was so hot he felt like he was burning and turning into sandpaper. ****  
****

"Alfie, I need you to hold on, okay?" The grasshopper jostled his arms. ****  
****

"Okay." He wrapped his arms tight around Sam's neck. ****  
****

"Good boy," the grasshopper muttered. His arms left Matt, lifting up, and he instinctively tightened the grip of his legs around the grasshopper's waist. He buried his face against Sam's shirt as they started moving upward. They were climbing, not flying. Was there a ladder? ****  
****

"Almost there," Sam grunted. He smelled like chocolate. Caramel and cherries and something like strawberry licorice or maybe just strawberries. Matt thought it was important but he didn't know why. Samandriel would know. He wished the angel was awake. He missed him. ****  
****

"Don't drop me," he muttered to the grasshopper, his fingers digging into the back of his shirt. Why did grasshopper's wear shirts? "My wings are unconscious." ****  
****

"Don't pass out!" Sam snapped at him, and Matt almost felt like he could feel the panic as well as hear it. Weird. ****  
****

But then the bright sunlight was fading and he didn't have time to care anymore. ****  
****

Too bad. He wanted to ask him about his strange wings and why he smelled like candy. ****  
****

* * *

The sound of pages turning was the first thing that registered in Matt's mind as he rolled his way unsteadily toward consciousness. There was a strange, too-clean smell in the air, like the inside of a fridge. He thought the inside of his mouth sort of felt like the inside of a fridge, only one where something had died and started to mold. His teeth felt _furry_ and he was pretty sure he had some sand grains flossing his gums. His dentist would be proud of his tooth care for once, at least. Maybe he'd get to pick his color toothbrush next time. They always gave him _blue_ . ****  
****

His eyelids were either sticky or heavy and he couldn't quite decide which. Regardless, he forced them open, staring at the very white ceiling that didn't have any glow in the dark stars. What a waste of space. ****  
****

Another page turned in a book and Samandriel turned his head to the left, looking to see who it was. Not his parents. His mom didn't like to read and his dad would be using his laptop or his phone. Not a book. Only Matt liked books. ****  
****

It was a very large book, with a worn card laminated on the binding that read OPL in block letters. Oasis Plains Library. Well, at least he hadn't managed to land himself in Oz. He'd look terrible in ruby heels, anyway. ****  
****

"S'm?" That was the boy's name, right? Matt didn't remember much of his face or what clothes he had been wearing, but those open spaces behind his shoulders, like the missing pieces of a puzzle, were unmistakable. Just waiting on wings to be fit into place. He wondered where you were supposed to get them from. Maybe there was a wing shop in Heaven. ****  
****

But then he had to wonder, was this guy an angel? ****  
****

The book lowered and a pair of eyes peered over at him, a relieved smile sliding over a face scruffy with an unshaved beard. "Hey, Matt. How you feeling?" ****  
****

"Super." He saw the needle sticking out of the back of his hand. "Nevermind, I take it back." He pointed at the plastic line that ran from a bag of clear fluid _into his skin_ . "Oh look. I've been impaled. I thought this was a _hospital_ ?" ****  
****

"It's saline," Sam said, standing up and stretching before leaning over and pressing the big red button above Matt's Head. "You were severely dehydrated and suffering heatstroke. I ended up finding you by accident when I was looking for… something." He gave Matt a bemused look. "You seemed to think I was a grasshopper." ****  
****

"It's your giant legs. They terrify me," Matt said deadpan. ****  
****

Sam grinned at him and it occurred to Matt that he had no idea who this guy was. Why did he feel like he knew him? Artemis had said to trust him, yes, but there was more than that. Matt felt like he _knew_ him. Like he should know what the void of wings meant, or the glow that seemed to live just behind Sam's ears, like a halo, or maybe horns made of light. _Was_ he an angel? ****  
****

"Where're my parents?" Surely they wouldn't still be working if Matt was in the hospital. ****  
****

"Getting something to eat at the cafeteria," Sam said, sitting back down. "I wanted to talk to you without anyone here, about the sinkhole you fell into." ****  
****

"You mean about the curse." It was funny watching Sam's mouth fall open. Matt hadn't realized that was a real thing outside of cartoons. "It's using the bugs to hurt people." ****  
****

There were ants. Red ants. Swarming around him, circlings him on the floor of the sinkhole. It had been their tunnels that he stumbled onto, a trap that he triggered, but the bright sunshine of Samandriel's presence had kept them at bay. Matt didn't know how he knew that, but he could see it as though he had been conscious when they encircled his prone form. Maybe he had. He didn't remember. ****  
****

"Yes," Sam said, his eyes pinched. "I'm trying to stop it." ****  
****

"Good." ****  
****

The two stared at each other for a moment, interrupted when the nurse came in to check on Matt. He put up with her fussing because he was hoping he could get the giant needle taken out of his hand, but not even good behavior freed him from that. ****  
****

"Dehydration is serious," Sam said, once the nurse had left. "It was one hundred and five today. You're lucky you're not worse off." ****  
****

Matt studied his face. "Have we met before?" ****  
****

Sam's eyes widened. "What?" ****  
****

"You just… you act like you know me and I feel like I know you. So… have we met?" ****  
****

Sam's eyes slid away from him. "No. I'm just passing through and happened to stumble on the search party looking for you. Concerned drifter is all." ****  
****

_He knows more than he says._ ** **  
****

"But you're here about the curse?" ****  
****

Sam shrugged and looked back at him. "I always thought cursebreaking sounded like a fun job." ****  
****

What… what did that mean? "Who do you think you are - Bill Weasley?" ****  
****

Sam smiled at him. "I'm not nearly cool enough." He leaned forward in his chair. "What do you know about the curse?" ****  
****

Matt opened his mouth to tell Sam that he didn't know anything about the curse besides that it was bad news and using insects, but Artemis' voice whispered in his ear and he instead found himself relating information he didn't think anyone but a goddess could have known. ****  
****

Sam didn't look nearly as surprised as Matt thought he should. It was straight out of a _Harry Potter_ book. ****  
****

Maybe Sam wasn't an angel. Maybe he was a wizard.


	16. Of Music & Memories 4

**OF MUSIC & MEMORIES**

 **Chapter Four**

* * *

 _"What is that?"_ ** **  
****

There was a heaviness in the air, like humidity and the weight of a pending storm. The charge ran up the length of Matt's arms, raising the hairs along his flesh and making him shiver. Sweat dampened his hair and ran down his face as he tried to breathe through the thickness of the air.

 _"It's the curse,"_ Samandriel said, looking at the waves of twisted magic, red and pulsing with sickness, that rose from the ground like heat. _"It's getting stronger."_ ** **  
****

 _"Who's that?"_ Samandriel turned his attention to the man that Matt was looking at just as Matt whispered, "Is… is he a ghost?" ****  
****

_"Yes."_ Samandriel could see with his grace that the man had died decades prior, but he could also see the lines of red sickness wrapped around his arms and legs like ropes. _"He is the spirit of the chieftain who cursed this land long ago. He has remained trapped here by his own magic and now it has grown beyond his control."_ Where once the chieftain had been strong, now his back was bowed, his face lined with regret and pain. The bindings of the curse had dug into his soul and it was feeding upon him as much as it was the land. ****  
****

_"Why doesn't he just leave?"_ ** **  
****

 _"He can't."_ Samandriel wondered what Matt could see of the curse, or if he could only feel it hanging in the air like a pending storm. _"The curse has bound him to this land. He cannot leave so long as it exists."_

Long white hair fell around the man's shoulders, framing the look of weary sorrow on his face. He turned to regard them, his eyes sunken deep and dulled with defeat. ****  
****

"There is another who came before you. He has gone on to fight the curse," the chieftain said in a hoarse voice, as though it had been too long since he had spoken. "When he dies, it will grow stronger from defeating him."

"That's why we're here," Matt said, meeting the old man's eyes. "To make sure he wins." ****  
****

The man looked at him with a gaze as tired as it was old. "The foolishness of youth was once endearing to me. Now I find it heartbreaking." ****  
****

Neither Matt nor Samandriel knew what to say to that, so they simply turned and kept walking. The presence of the curse grew heavier in the air each step they took, until it seemed as though they were walking uphill through a bog, and dragging weights behind them. ****  
****

And then they saw him. Sam. The boy that had come to see Matt in the hospital, who had looked so strange to Matt in a way he couldn't quite describe, other than to say he had wings that weren't wings, yet. And Samandriel had wondered who this boy was with his strange not-wings, who was fighting the curse on this land. He had expected, perhaps, another brother who had followed Samandriel to bring him back onto his mission, or perhaps a human that had been a vessel to an angel at one point and some memory of their wings remained, but he had not expected this. ****  
****

Samandriel had found Lucifer's vessel. ****  
****

Well, more accurately, the vessel had found Matt, and saved his life, if the hysteria of Matt's parents and the looming doctors were to be believed. That had been unpleasant to wake up to - both the parents' and Matt's emotion raging like a storm around Samandriel's aching grace, and the doctor coming in and poking at Matt every hour or so. ****  
****

Matt had been hurt by his father's yelling - and while he did appear angry, Samandriel could feel the fear rolling off him like a wafting cold air. But Matt, struggling to hide his tears from his mother, hadn't been open to the explanation. He would bring it up later, when the situation wasn't so dire and their need for focus elsewhere. ****  
****

Sam was fighting the curse. ****  
****

The vessel of the MorningStar was fighting the curse. ****  
****

And Samandriel could think of no reason to fight the curse other than to protect humans. ****  
****

He'd saved Matt and he was protecting humans. ****  
****

The vessel of Lucifer? Truly? ****  
****

_"He has wings, see?"_ ** **  
****

One of the things they had learned that morning was that Samandriel could hear Matt if he just thought what he wanted to say. Matt hadn't been able to talk to Samandriel in front of his mom, who had spent most of the morning in the hospital room after Sam had left. Samandriel had spoken to Matt as he usually did, in his mind where no one else could hear, but apparently Samandriel could hear Matt the same way. He'd never had that happen before, but then, Matt was the first human Samandriel had ever taken as a vessel, so maybe that was the difference. ****  
****

Somehow… Samandriel didn't think so. ****  
****

_"I do see."_ And he did, which was… concerning. ****  
****

Angels could see things, of course. Or rather, they had a higher perception than humans, and thus the ability to see things in the world that humans were blind to. There were some humans, however, that had the unique ability to see parts of the world that many others could not. ****  
****

Matt, for instance, was a seer of some sort. That was why he had been able to see Samandriel in the church, before he had taken a vessel. And it was why he was able to see wings on Sam. Not wings that were but wings that _would be_ . Wings that Samandriel would not have been able to see, except that somehow, _somehow_ , he was seeing with Matt's Sight. Not just with his eyes, with his body. Samandriel was seeing the world with Matt's soul. ****  
****

Was it because Sam Winchester was Lucifer's vessel? Was that why he bore the space for wings upon his back? ****  
****

And yet… the void, if Samandriel was to imagine wings filling that void, it would be a single set of wings. Not the three pairs of wings that belonged to an archangel, just one.

Why was that? ****  
****

Then again, if Matt was only seeing the future, then his Sight might just be seeing _wings_ and not anything so specific as the number or shape of them. ****  
****

But… ****  
****

But why could Samandriel see them? Why could Samandriel see the world through Matt's soul? He hadn't been able to before, so what had changed? Why was he different? ****  
****

_"What is THAT!?"_ Matt's voice echoed, as it was cried out in his mind and aloud. The boy stumbled backward, away from the creature that rose up from the earth, and it took a moment before Samandriel was able to parse it - to separate what his grace was seeing from what Matt's sight and Sight was seeing. ****  
****

It had once been a spider. Samandriel could see that. Once, long ago, it had been a small orb weaver, nothing remotely interesting about it. And then the curse had suffused through the land, and the orb weaver had been at its center, absorbing the cruel magic as the land did, but lacking the vastness that allowed it to dissipate. Within the earth, the curse spread out, growing only slowly over time, but within the spider, the curse had nowhere to go, and could only grow. ****  
****

And such a small thing the little orb weaver was. It had so much space to grow into. ****  
****

And grow it had. The horror within Matt's mind was understandable, faced against a creature that should have been less than an inch tall but was now nearly fifteen feet high, it's legs each thicker than the trunk of a sapling. The eyes of the creature were bulbous black pustules that reflected the light, and every hair on its massive thorax looked like a needle sticking up from its skin. It pulsed with the sick stench of magic that has gone wrong. Its entire form was a cesspool of madness and rot, oozing darkness, and Samandriel felt revolted by the very presence of the thing. Its very sight was abominable. ****  
****

And yet… beneath it. Buried so deeply under a magic borne of the need for revenge and the desire to hurt, Samandriel could sense the tiniest presence. A little orb weaver spider, small, fearful of this large thing that it had become, wanting only to bury itself somewhere warm and dark safe. ****  
****

The mass of the creature, its form fed on the power of the curse's magic, rose up from beneath the earth, towering over Sam Winchester, more than twice his height. Samandriel felt the shuddering rush of Matt's concern and fear, too large to allow the boy to speak, as they watched the massive creature lunge forward, fangs primed. ****  
****

But Sam, thank Father, was fast and ready, moving out of the way before he could be struck, but not _away_ . Too much a fool to move away, the vessel of the Apocalypse cried out as his fingers were pierced by the needling hairs on the spider's body, but didn't stop his movements as he climbed up the spider's body to crouch on its back. ****  
****

"What is he doing?" Matt cried, even as Sam pulled a blade from his belt and sank it deep into the creature's back. ****  
****

Samandriel felt the rise of bile in the back of Matt's throat and forced it down with his grace, even as he understood the cause. Neither of them had known that spiders could scream. Samandriel never would have expected one to sound so human. ****  
****

The massive creature bucked beneath Sam's clinging form, eight legs in constant motion as it tried to throw Sam from its back. To his credit, Sam clung on for longer than Samandriel suspected most could manage, and when he hit the ground, he rolled to absorb the impact, rushing to his feet as fast as possible to stay out from under the stomping legs of the angry creature. ****  
****

But now Sam was weaponless, the blade he had been using buried to the hilt in the back of the creature, tendrils of curse leaking out around it like steam from beneath the lid of a cooking pot. ****  
****

The thought of summoning his own blade entered Samandriel's mind - either wielding it himself or giving it to Sam, though the second seemed too dangerous for him and Matt if it turned out that Sam Winchester was more like Lucifer than he appeared. ****  
****

Grace churning agitatedly, Samandriel held back, not aware he was restricting Matt's movements until the boy asked _"Why don't you want to help him?"_ ** **  
****

It wasn't that Samandriel didn't want to help him. He was afraid. Afraid of what the vessel of the Morningstar would do if confronted with another angel. ****  
****

And also, perhaps, afraid of what it meant that Samandriel had found Lucifer's vessel. His mission was complete, so should he not return to Heaven and report? Should he not reveal the identity and location of the vessel to his superiors? Leave Matt and Earth behind for his duties. ****  
****

It seemed wrong. It was his duty, his assigned purpose, but it seemed wrong. ****  
****

He didn't want to leave. ****  
****

But that meant defying his orders. ****  
****

What… did that mean? If he was not a good soldier, following orders, then what was he? Was he even still an angel? ****  
****

Sam cried out and Samandriel looked back at the vessel to see blood leaking from his leg where the sharp hairs on the spider's leg had cut through denim and flesh. Sam was limping backward, his lips moving, voice too low for Samandriel to hear, though he recognized the sensation of magic culminating. Like storm clouds drawing together to form a funnel, the incantation called the magic of the world to the fore in defense. ****  
****

Funny. No one had said the Morningstar's vessel was a witch. ****  
****

_"Samandriel, please,"_ Matt whispered, and though he did not think it directly at Samandriel, the angel heard it anyway. _I don't want to have to watch him die._ ** **  
****

The thought shook Samandriel from his inattention and he realized he had unconsciously locked Matt into place, kept the boy from moving. He released a hold he hadn't realized he was able to put on Matt and felt the boy stumble in surprise. ****  
****

And then they were moving, staying out of main sight of both the spider and Sam, racing around the back of the creature. ****  
****

_"What can we do? What can we do?"_ Matt was thinking in his head, trying to find a way to help Sam. _"I need a giant can of Raid."_ ** **  
****

Samandriel flexed his grace, feeling it flow through Matt's fingers like warm air, twisting around his knuckles before forming into a ball at his palm. It pulsed there a moment, a wind scented with autumn leaves, and then burst like a star, shooting outward even as it solidified. ****  
****

_"Do you know how to use a sword?"_ Samandriel asked, and felt Matt's responding disbelief and uncertainty. ****  
****

"Uhh… stick 'em with the pointy end?" But Matt's fingers had closed reflexively around the hilt and he held the blade with an awareness of balance that would have been unknown to an amateur. ****  
****

And Samandriel could feel Matt's mind, like a tiny animal, nosing at the knowledge in his own mind. Seeking out the how's he would need for this process. And there was no way an explanation in words could teach Matt what he needed to know to wield a blade, but if he somehow naturally knew how to attain the information, Samandriel wasn't going to stop him. ****  
****

Except when they moved, it wasn't just Matt leading. Fingers gripping the blade, Matt stepped forward and Samandriel followed, completed a half-certain movement and brought their arm arcing upward, the point of the blade pressing against needled flesh and then through. And that shriek - that terrible inhuman shriek. ****  
****

Sam's voice rose over the sound of the screeching, magic swirling about the clearing, and Samandriel and Matt moved together, their arm moving their blade and cutting into their enemy. Like smoke, the curse darkened the air, flowing from the inflicted wounds and dissipating as it faced the vastness of the world and the power of Sam's magic. ****  
****

Lost in the sensation of being both Samandriel and Matt, of being some mix of two separate beings - SaMatt, perhaps, or Matriel - it came as no surprise but was, instead, to be expected, when they lifted their arm and it was the part of their mind that was _Matt_ that summoned their grace forth. Not as a blade, this time, but pure energy, formless and fierce. The writhing mass of the spider's monstrous form came close enough to touch and it was nothing at all to reach out and let that energy release - let the grace within him meet the energy of the curse and not destroy it, no, for not even angels could destroy energy, but break its bonds, tear apart its form, and make it into something new. ****  
****

Blue and white light flashed like electricity and the curse's smoky essence bubbling from the shattered form it had taken, dissipating even as it attempted to cloud the sky. SaMatt felt it turn, the sickness receding from it as it was drawn back into the earth, not a curse anymore, just magic. Energy. Gaia. Whatever word from whatever time would best fit the here and now. It settled deep in the earth, humming with cool power, and already SaMatt could feel it building, feeding the land, and he knew that the following summer would see the barrenness of this land destroyed, buried beneath the beauty of what the earth could create when given a chance. ****  
****

He, they, could sense the death of the curse. They could feel the chieftain's relief as the bindings keeping him here released and his soul finally moved beyond this realm. Matt exhaled a sigh and Samandriel released his hold on his angel blade, letting it fade back into grace and cool back within him. ****  
****

With a soft exhalation, SaMatt became Samandriel and Matt again, the angel's grace loosening from the tight grasp it had on Matt's form, and Matt's mind eased out of that place where all the knowledge of an ancient being lay. They became angel and human again, though while neither took note then, nor would for some time, something else still lingered. Something… very human, very angel, and very much both at precisely the same time. ****  
****

"Oh," Matt said, bending down and scooping up a tiny form into his hands. ****  
****

Samandriel felt sorrow run through him like water leaking down the walls of a cavern, too much like a summer rain to be ignored, and his wings ached briefly before curling forward, suffusing tiny limbs with just a touch of grace. Just enough to spur on the residual magic from the displaced curse. Tiny legs twitched and uncurled, and Matt's awe and pleasure was a gift Samandriel took a moment to simply bask in. What a beautiful thing was human wonder. Happiness. Joy. ****  
****

"Hello, little orb weaver," Matt whispered, crouching down and lowering his hands to the ground. "Time for you to go home." The spider moved tentatively off Matt's palm, and one free, took off as fast as its tiny legs could carry it. Somewhere dark, Samandriel knew. Somewhere safe. He wished the little spider well. ****  
****

Matt turned then and Samandriel's eyes followed, looking at the vessel of the Morningstar, whose would-be wings seemed darker and more ready to be filled than they had before. Almost hungry for their future and the idea frightened Samandriel. He did not want this world to end. ****  
****

"Hi, Sam." ****  
****

Sam's expression was cool and there was a hardness in his eyes that left him looking like someone else, someone cruel. It frightened them and Matt ducked his head, taking a step back. ****  
****

"Hello, Samandriel. I see you've taken a vessel." ****  
****

Samandriel's wings stuttered in surprise, then curled around Matt's body protectively. So. The vessel of Lucifer was more than he appeared. Not a witch but something else. Something that knew how to name him. ****  
****

"He didn't take me. I said he could come in. We're time sharing." ****  
****

Rather than grin or laugh like Matt had intended, Sam's expression went impossibly colder. His hand flexed, as though itching for a weapon, but he didn't have one and didn't rise to his feet. Samandriel could see the blood soaking his pant leg, dripping into the ground. ****  
****

"Let him go, Samandriel. He doesn't need to be a pawn in Heaven's games." ****  
****

Matt wasn't a pawn! Samandriel would never think he was just a pawn. Matt was his best friend! ****  
****

Matt was also saying something, but Samandriel wasn't listening. He curled his wings inward, condensing himself down, and had just enough presence of mind to recognize Matt's panicked shout before he pulled himself out of Matt, leaving the vessel and taking to the skies. ****  
****

* * *

Matt caught himself before he crashed face-first into the earth, his fingers digging into dirt even as his vision blurred with tears. Breath hitched hard in his lungs and he swallowed a scream that wanted to escape, feeling like he'd been kicked to the side of the road and ripped in two at the same time. ****  
****

Hands on his shoulders and a voice talking at him, fast, worried, but Matt only staggered back, tears running down his cheeks. ****  
****

Artemis had said that they were going to be together forever! What… why had Samandriel left? Matt didn't want him to leave! ****  
****

Fingers curled into the flesh of his shoulders and a brief shake had him opening his eyes and meeting Sam's. He looked worried, his own eyes wide and face pale. ****  
****

"I didn't want him to go," Matt whispered. ****  
****

Sam's eyebrows drew down in a frown, but it was confusion this time, not the coldness of before. "I don't understand. He was talking like he was you." ****  
****

Matt shook his head. "I was talking. Why would he talk like me? He's himself." He wiped the tears away, forcing himself to focus. Part of him wanted to be angry at Sam for driving Samandriel away, but the worry clear on the man's face was hard to be angry with. ****  
****

"I've seen angels take people as vessels before," Sam said, and there was something sad in his voice. "They take control. The… human is pushed back. Buried." A shudder made its way through Sam's body. ****  
****

"Samandriel… has never taken control." He had prevented Matt from moving during the battle, but the sensation of fear, like smoke, had been around him then. Matt wasn't even sure Samandriel realized how terrified he had been. "He's here, but I let him in. He's… he's my best friend." ****  
****

"I'm sorry," Sam said, hand rubbing up and down Matt's arm. "I thought he was hurting you. I didn't even know angels could leave you in control." He frowned then. "Why was he down here anyway?" ****  
****

**_"I was looking for you."_ ******  
****

"Samandriel!" Matt cried, delighted. He dropped down into a crouch and stared at the new vessel the angel had taken. "I thought you left for good." ****  
****

**_"No. I just wanted Sam to see that I wasn't controlling you."_** He hopped forward and that was when Matt noticed that the tiny body of the rabbit was shaking. ****  
****

"Are you okay?" ****  
****

**_"I don't feel right."_ ******  
****

"Me neither," Matt whispered. He scooped the rabbit up in his arms and stood, both of them sighing in relief at the physical contact. "I guess Artemis wasn't lying." ****  
****

**_"I don't think I'm supposed to leave you,"_** Samandriel said. He turned his head to regard Sam. **_"Are you still worried I'm controlling him?"_** ** **  
****

"No," Sam said, "but I am confused. Why didn't you take control of him from the start?" ****  
****

**_"How was I supposed to learn anything doing that?"_ ******  
****

Sam apparently didn't have anything to say to that. He simply looked bemused. ****  
****

"What happens now?" Matt asked, looking between the two of them. ****  
****

Sam frowned. "You said you were looking for me?" ****  
****

**_"Heaven is in an uproar. You did some praying that has a lot of people questioning what's going on. No one can sense where you are and angels have been dispatched to find you. I was one of them, but I don't want to go back. I want to stay with Matt."_ ******  
****

"I want you to stay," Matt whispered, rubbing his fingers over Samandriel's soft fur. ****  
****

Sam was smiling softly, like he knew something they didn't. Matt wondered what it was. ****  
****

**_"They're going to keep looking for you. They want to make sure the apocalypse happens."_** He sighed. **_"And you're the vessel of Lucifer."_** ** **  
****

"I know," Sam said, and he didn't sound nearly as surprised as Matt thought he should. ****  
****

**_"I don't want the world to end,"_** Samandriel said softly. **_"I like this world. I like humans."_** ** **  
****

"I'm trying to make sure it doesn't happen," Sam said. ****  
****

Matt didn't understand how Samandriel could be so calm about all of this. Lucifer was the Devil! He was evil! But Sam didn't look either surprised or revolted - just sad. How did he even know all of this? And the Apocalypse? Matt didn't want the world to end. ****  
****

He thought about Artemis telling him that his choice to remain with Samandriel wouldn't be easy. Maybe this is what she meant. Stopping the end of the world. He couldn't think of anything harder. ****  
****

"What can I do?" ****  
****

Sam looked at him, smiling with amusement. "Go home and live your life." ****  
****

Matt scowled at him but Sam shook his head. "Do you know that most angels have no idea what humans are really like? They think we're nothing more than monkeys - mud monkeys, they call us - because they are old enough to have known the world before we began. They saw humans before we evolved into what we are now, and they still think we are as dull as animals. ****  
****

"If you really want to help, live your life. Show Samandriel what it means to be human. The good and the bad. Then, if you get the chance, show another angel. Let them see humans for what they _really_ are. I can't think of anything that would help more." ****  
****

"What are you going to do?" ****  
****

Sam sighed and for a moment, he looked so defeated, looking around at the carnage from the battle. "I'll head back to school." He looked thoughtful for a moment, then said "I go to Stanford University, in California. Palo Alto. If you need me, you can call the University and someone will get a message to me." He frowned. "Or ask for The Feckin' Bean when you call. Anyone there can help." He looked at them for a long moment. "You gonna be okay?" ****  
****

Matt looked down at the rabbit in his arms, who met his gaze, and grinned. "We're gonna be awesome." ****  
****

There was the honking of a car horn and an ambulance stopped along the nearby road. The window rolled down and both of them looked to see the nurse from the hospital poke her head out. "Matthew Pike!" ****  
****

"Oh crap," Matt muttered. ****  
****

Sam grimaced. "Want me to come back with you? Say I kidnapped you?" ****  
****

"Nah." Matt hugged the rabbit to him. "My mom's probably just losing her shit. I'll be okay." He eyed Sam a long moment, looking at the wings that stretched behind him. "Thanks for your help, Sam." ****  
****

He looked down at the rabbit. "You ready to come back in?" ****  
****

**_"I doubt they will let a rabbit in the hospital."_ ******  
****

"Come on, then." There was a rush of air and the flutter-flap of wings, and Matt sighed in relief as that empty space inside him was finally filled again. "Never leave again." ****  
****

_"I don't ever want to."_ ** **  
****

Matt turned to see Sam watching them, a strange look on his face like a mix of surprise and curiosity and something Matt couldn't identify. He tilted his head. "What is it?" ****  
****

Sam shook his head with a smile. "Nothing. Just… seeing something I hadn't before. Call me if you need me." ****  
****

"I will." ****  
****

Matt turned and jogged to the ambulance, speaking to the nurse. He climbed in the back and waved to Sam before shutting the doors and sitting down on a bench with a sigh. ****  
****

What a weird day. ****  
****

The ambulance started moving and Matt dozed as they made their way back to the hospital. It was not doing to be fun facing his parents after disappearing when he should have been hooked up to the stupid needle drip. ****  
****

He woke as the ambulance trundled to a stop and the doors opened, but when he hopped down from the ambulance steps, he realized they weren't at the hospital. ****  
****

Matt frowned as he noted the clearing they stood in, and turned when he heard footsteps behind him. A woman stepped into view, tall, with her hair pulled back right in a bun and a bored look on her face. "Hello, Matthew, I'm Miss Watt. I'm very interested in talking to you and your friend." She lit a match and dropped it to the ground, and fire swarmed around Matt in a ring, trapping them both. ****  
****

He felt Samandriel shake within him, curling his wings in protectively. ****  
****

"Very, very interested."


End file.
